


Bellyachin'

by WonderMint



Series: Bellyachin' [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Light Angst, M/M, Mild S&M, Oral Sex, Religious Guilt, Sad Boys in Snow, Violence, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderMint/pseuds/WonderMint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tataru plays the matchmaker, Alphinaud plays the nurse, and Aymeric plays the maid.  A pre-heavensward romance.  Spoilers for the end of the 2.x storyline, beware!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Maid

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real foray into fiction. When I completed the 2.x storyline, in the dark times before the release of Heavensward, it occurred to me to get into fanfiction. I went to AFF, my go-to for erotica, and found... one story.
> 
> Not having known anywhere better to go, I decided to fill the void. Even if it sucked, I thought, someone might appreciate it. In retrospect, if I'd found this site first, I probably would not have begun writing at all. Back then I was pretty sure I was miserable at it. But because I had a private garden where even a dandelion was better than cracked stone, I had the courage to try something new. And only a year later, my life is richer for it.
> 
> This is the story I decided to cut my teeth on, not because I have any attachment to Alphinaud, but because I thought I could make it work. I was hoping for a couple of chapters, maybe five? Instead I got a novel. And I fell in love with a lot of characters along the way... most especially my Lord Haurchefant.
> 
> I have categorized this is a work involving a minor out of caution. Canon states that Alphinaud is 16 at the opening of FFXIV:ARR, so he should be well over 18 by now. But I have called him 17 here so as not to age him too much. Does anyone in Eorzea care about that one year of age difference? Probably only Alisaie, and I'm fairly certain he'd tell her to mind her own bees.
> 
>  
> 
> **Spoilers for the end of the 2.x storyline. Like, all of it, I am serious. If you haven't finished it, come back later. It's okay. I'll wait.**

The cold had begun to settle into his bones, an ever-present ache. No matter how warm the generous fire, Alphinaud Leveilleur could still feel the cold at the edges of the stone room, leeching away the false rosy cheer into the snowy Coerthan night. He was beginning to feel as if it had always been there, following him wherever he went, and only now was the harsh truth laid bare.

 

He sat before the great fire, bell after bell, feeling the cold settle into his bones, and his heart.

 

A scant seventeen years old, Alphinaud had briefly been counted among the most important men and women in Eorzea. His short stature and fair voice, his fine features and slender frame which would suggest a Padjal if not for the lack of horns, none of that mattered. People looked beyond them the moment they knew his family name. Leveilleur, the man who rallied Eorzea against the primals and forged their resolve against the Garleans. Leveilleur, the man who had summoned the Twelve from the heavens and shattered the Omega Flare. Alphinaud needed only walk in his footprints for people to see his grandfather's shoes on his feet. And for a time he had thought it working, his meddling in the affairs of nations, his forging of his little army. He had thought himself in command and at the helm of not only his own destiny, but with a hand at the rudder of the history of nations.

 

And then the Sultana fell. And his own people, turned on him. His friends, gone. His toy army, now an agent of some unseen malefactor, working against everything he fought to achieve. The Sultana! How recently he had seen her, always such a voice of compassion and reason, a leader who truly loved her land and peoples. Now, silenced by moneterist murderers. She was merely the first to fall, an emblem of the death of all that was good. It was almost like the calamity all over again, but now he hadn't even his sister by his side.

 

He had thought himself the realist and her the fool, but in the end, it had been he who had chased ideals like faery-lights into the deep woods. And though he knew he had her care and support, thankful beyond words that she had thought to engineer his rescue, he regretted that they had parted ways. He longed, now, for the days when they had innocently curled together in the dark, taking solace and giving comfort when the whole world had turned to madness and flame. Now felt very like that time, but now he had no-one in his arms and no assurance that anything would be aright ever again.

 

He shook his head then, long white ponytail tracing his shoulders, the ghostly touch reminding him he was alone. It would not do to pity himself, not when the Flame General was imprisoned and his friend a wanted criminal. Not when the archons were yet unaccounted for. Not when...

 

A knock sounded on the door, a blessed interruption. “Enter,” he said quickly, not bothering to stand. These days the only ones who visited him in his small room were Tataru and Lord Haurchefant, both doggedly trying to keep up his spirits as he waited the interminable period between the fall of everything he held dear, and the thawing of relations with icy Ishgard. Both of his friends were a miracle of goodwill and enthusiasm. He reminded himself not to scowl overmuch.

 

“Please excuse the interruption,” floated a voice from the door, “but I have been tasked with a most holy mission.” The voice was deep and calm like a frozen lake, and Alphinaud looked up quickly to see Ser Aymeric, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, carrying a covered tea tray like some kind of common servant. Taking care to show less surprise than he felt, he rose to help the taller man in and shut the door to the cold stone hall. Once the tray was safely set upon the low table by the hearth, he bade the other man to sit in the armchair opposite his, unable to banish the small smile of curiosity.

 

“And what mission has the Fury set before her champion? Tea service?” he asked wryly, resting his chin on meshed fingers and appraising his guest. The Elezen before him was shockingly handsome, black hair framing an aristocratic face with a fine nose and discerning, narrowed eyes. His heavy armor, with long, royal blue coat, glistened with recent snowmelt in the dancing fire. Aymeric had the bearing of a king despite his so-called inferior breeding. Alphinaud rather suspected because of it. The other man was leaning one elbow on an armrest and regarding him in turn, only the barest smile playing on his thin lips. He thought he saw icy eyes widen a touch when he mentioned the goddess, and he was reminded what a poor idea it was to blaspheme in front of the man who held the key to his asylum.

 

“Nay, today I serve a higher power,” he answered easily, as if there had been no affront. “Mistress Taru.” Alphinaud let escape a rather undignified snort of amusement, covering his mouth and nose with his hand quickly. The commander finally allowed the smile to reach his cheeks, but he continued. “Lord Haurchefant had just persuaded me to rest here for the night, when did I come upon the lady Tataru. Naturally I inquired as to your health, whereupon I was informed that you have sadly taken ill. Moments later, I found myself pressed quite forcefully into her service. It was most astonishing.” The man's pale eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight, seeming somehow dark despite their pale color. Whether from mockery or mischief, Alphinaud could not say.

 

The hand that covered Alphinaud's mouth slipped higher as his head dipped, covering most of his vision. “Illness? I had not been informed of any maladies.” He kept his tone light but the feeling that played behind his eyes was beginning to feel remarkably like embarrassment.

 

“Ah, the mistress... she called it...” he seemed to grasp in the air for a moment for the word, but it was just for show. “Belly-achin',” he pronounced carefully, clear to leave off the final letter. “I am to see that you eat, that your condition might begin to improve.” Amusement still dancing behind watchful eyes, he leaned forward and removed the cover to reveal two steaming plates of food and a bottle of wine. “Please, would you do me the honor of sharing a meal? I could not face the lady should my mission fail.”

 

Yes, that was embarrassment. It was not the first time Ser Aymeric had gotten the better of him, but it was certainly the most personal blow. He closed his eyes fully, hiding behind his fingers and leaning back into the plush chair. He wanted nothing more than to throw the Ishgardian out, but he knew that was his pride talking. His pride hadn't made good decisions for him of late.

 

“Yes, of course, please take your ease. I could not refuse so noble a mission,” he said more confidently than he felt. He would have words with Tataru later. Ser Aymeric was personally responsible for the greatest diplomatic breakthroughs the alliance had had in years, and the single man who could provide safety for the former Scions and their rag-tag band of adventurers and light-blessed heroes. This was not a man to be sent on dinner dates and flower deliveries. They could not afford to alienate him, either with trivialities or with careless, prideful words.

 

Said man didn't seem offended in the slightest, though, as he reached for the red wine and poured for them both. Alphinaud willed himself to relax and focus. This, too, was a diplomatic mission. “Thank you,” he said, taking his glass and raising it alongside its twin before sipping. “And I'm truly sorry you were pressed into such menial service. Tataru shall have to find someone else to coddle me, or the Temple Knights shall want for a commander.”

 

“We must all make sacrifices for that which we hold dear,” said the other man, closing his eyes as he sampled the wine.

 

Alphinaud refused to ponder what that could mean.

 

Instead he sipped his own wine, appreciating the thick, velvety whisper on his tongue that seemed to linger on like the humming of a plucked string. Smooth but strong enough to complement the gamey meat, yet subtle enough to mingle with the savory sauce that accompanied it. Coerthan cuisine leaned heavily toward red meat and popotoes, accompanied by other root vegetables, greens being a rare luxury. He had at first thought it bland, but could now see the depth of flavor that could be achieved simmering onions and bones for days on end. With the right wine, it became a dance. Only now, in Aymeric's presence, did he understand.

 

Was he really so lost that he had forgotten to taste?

 

The knight regarded him quietly throughout the meal, evidently at home in silence as well as speech. There was something in his expression that made Alphinaud feel unsettled under his relaxed gaze, as if he were entirely too interested or entirely too comfortable for the younger man's liking. He was too accustomed to seeing the Ishgardian as an opponent, though he had to admit that the knight always seemed to find a way to accommodate both of their interests, as though he were playing both sides of the chess board. Mayhap he was more like a rival. Never letting him rest easy, ever finding ways to challenge him and force him to grow.

 

Perhaps that was why Alphinaud was so uncomfortable now. He did not like that Aymeric knew that he despaired, especially did not like him to condescend to help. It meant that he had fallen so low in spirit that he was not capable of picking himself back up, could not rise to the challenge. Somehow he felt that the same could never be said of the man before him. Something told him that the knight rarely relied on others for his strength.

 

In a few years, perhaps, Alphinaud could hope that he might have the wit and self-assurance that Ser Aymeric seemed to command so naturally. But that could never happen if he sat and bemoaned his fate.

 

The youth sighed, closing his eyes in frustration, though it was at his own antics now. “How pathetic I must seem,” he said to himself. Only after he said it did he realize he was compounding the error, pointing out his own weakness to the stalking coeurl. He glared at his glass as if looking for a scapegoat, finding it newly full but knowing full well that he alone bore the blame.

 

“Not at all,” said the knight. His expression softened, veiled behind silk as he sipped his wine. He had finished his meal as well, reclining quietly with his glass. He had not stopped watching the younger man, though, quiet and cautious, careful to give no threat as though he feared Alphinaud would sprout wings and fly like pheasants from a hound. “You have lost much. We all have, though mine own people live ever in ignorance of the fact. I rejoice that you are safe, but I will not think ill of you for grieving, nor for feeling lost when the light has ceased to shine on your path. I only wish that I could do more to secure for you a safe haven.”

 

“Nonsense,” returned Alphinaud with more vehemence than was necessary. That was all he needed, for the knight to be reminded of his request for asylum. Error upon error, weakness upon weakness. Inwardly he struggled against the idea, wanting to shake the thoughts out of the other man's head and finding, as usual, he had only words with which to do combat.

 

“You are not responsible for our troubles,” he insisted. “Rather the opposite, I find. In any case, this is as much a haven as any. Lord Haurchefant is a more generous host than any could hope to find.” He tried to smile as he said it, and succeeded despite himself, even if it came out a little wan and thin.

 

“Hmm, yes,” answered Aymeric, a touch of fondness in his voice, though he looked quickly to the corner of the room as if he secretly disagreed. But then he frowned, an uneasy crease perching on his brows like a messenger hawk, carrying all his worries. “Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel somehow responsible. If I had not been called away...”

 

Alphinaud interrupted, trying to squash the thought quickly and painlessly. “Then you would have been entangled in the mess yourself. The Seedseer and the Admiral both had the sense to walk away and keep themselves above accusation. Flame General Raubahn...”

 

“Acquitted himself with great honor, as I hear it,” said Aymeric, claiming the conversation back as if it were his birthright. The younger Elezen dropped his head, rather agreeing with the sentiment. It was such injustice. It was as if he had woken one day to find the fool wearing the crown and the regent dancing naked in the streets. Raubahn should have taken the reigns of the Sultanate, not been wounded grievously and left to rot in some gaol. For all they knew he was dead as well, dead with the light of hope in Ul'dah.

 

But it didn't matter anymore. It could not be changed, not from Camp Dragonhead. “There is nothing you could have done. Well that you remained clear of the carnage.” He felt tired now, all the fight having gone out of him. The adventurer would surely have been executed, had their friends not covered their escape. If the Scions and the Warrior of Light combined could not have changed the outcome that fateful day, then no-one could. He fixed the knight with a level stare, not challenging him so much as impressing upon him the futility of the argument, of worrying over events past. It was a lesson that he himself could stand to learn.

 

To his surprise, the edges of Aymeric's mouth turned upwards in imitation of a smile, eyes narrowing to regard him in some secret mirth. “Take care, Master Alphinaud, or I shall think you worried for mine safety.”

 

For some unexplained reason, the younger man turned away from him in a huff. “I could not possibly worry,” he felt compelled to reply, knowing full well he meant none of it. He only restrained himself from crossing his arms petulantly by virtue of the wine glass he still held, though its sloshing betrayed his desire to do it. “Is it not the dearest wish of your countrymen to be killed by a dragon? I merely wish to save you the indignity of death by politics. You are now free to toss yourself into the dragon's maw at your leisure.”

 

His face seemed to burn as he scowled, pointedly refusing to look at the man he had so insulted. He took another sip of his wine to distract his lips and cool his face, finding that it only accomplished the former and exacerbated the latter.

 

But Aymeric just chuckled, the sound low and sonorous, seeming to echo in Alphinaud's own chest and turn his own frown into a shy smile. It was alchemy, turning his scorn to gold.

 

When he looked back to regard the knight, his restrained shadow of a grin had bloomed to one of dangerous amusement. His eyes narrowed to dagger-points, pre-figuring the sharpening of his tongue. “Ah, it seems you have the right of it. And here I thought unbelievers to be ignorant of the rites of our faith. The heathen has schooled the holy man in the tenets of his own devotion. I am humbled.”

 

Once again, Alphinaud was reminded of the risk of insulting the knight's religion, and once again he was shocked at his easy parry. And now it was not only his face that bloomed with warmth, but his breast as well. He looked again to his glass, and, finding it nearly emptied again, decided that this time he could blame the drink.

 

Aymeric seemed preoccupied for a moment, not with drink but with Alphinaud, looking at him sharply, almost predatorily, perhaps wondering if he would return the barb. The younger diplomat would not, _could_ not risk another slight. In the end, the power dynamic between them was too great. He did not wish to seem weak before the commander, but neither did he wish to alienate his tentative ally. It was all he could do to sip his wine, raising his eyebrow at the knight as if to back up the challenge, but offering no further threat. Then the moment passed, the knight tossing his head dramatically like a prancing chocobo, dismissing the topic and any thoughts he may have been holding captive to flee into the sunset.

 

And the commander sighed, the weight of the nation settling on his shoulders. “As always your jest is more humorous for reflecting the truth. It may yet come to that. The war does not go well.” All his amusement had melted away, leaving him a little pensive and sad, staring into the fire.

 

The topic was safe, and Alphinaud fought to hide his relief at the change. War was a horror, the death toll greater and the stakes more dramatic, but it was more impersonal for it. He could speak of it calmly, and suffer no damage to his pride. “It has been a long stalemate, has it not? Shiva has been struck down, so why the change?”

 

The other man's eyes sparkled briefly before he collected his reply, as if to point out that he had noticed Alphinaud's subtle advancement of his people's part in the matter. He had hardly intended it, but even so he could put nothing past the knight. “Quite so. We have grown ever more weak since the Calamity. It is hardly a siege, and yet we grow leaner by the day, losing more of our strongest and struggling to feed our weakest. I know not why Nidhogg and Iceheart have pushed the battle now, but it seems some days as if the real question is... why has it taken so _long_?” He clenched his fist absently in the air, leaning his elbow on the armrest and staring off into the fire. He cut a fine figure in profile, all angles and grim determination. The man _looked_ like a true leader, the sort you would see in a great painting from ages past, even more-so as he worried for his people. If the land had not been a theocracy, perhaps he would eventually have risen to high office and commanded the fate of his nation.

 

Ishgard should be so lucky.

 

Alphinaud shook his head, tearing his eyes from the knight's elegant face. “A fine time for the alliance to fail you. Just as we had hoped to gain your assistance, we fail to deliver ours. Do you have any idea what the Wyrm is planning? Mayhap there is yet a way.”

 

Aymeric's gaze trailed over to him, by degrees as if his thoughts had carried him a long way hence. He blinked at the younger man, finally nodding in acceptance, or perhaps acknowledgment that he had heard at all. “Your concern is appreciated. Yet I have no answers for you. The accursed Nidhogg has not yet made an appearance. The Dragonstar warns only that his wrath is at its peak, and that  _something_ is coming. We yet know not what.”

 

He turned away again, pensively pursing his lips, but was not long in continuing. “For the present though, it does not seem to matter, loathe though I am to admit it. The heretics are not mere footmen this time. Their stratagems are wholly different from those we have come to expect from the Dravanians. I fear the Steps of Faith will not be the last time Iceheart takes us unaware.”

 

An unknown enemy with no known battle plan. The beast tribes had become almost predictable, generalized aggression punctuated by the summoning of primals, quickly dispatched by heaven-sent warriors. The threat of Garlemald had been more difficult to counter, a war hardly winnable with the application of a few strong arms. The Scions were skilled in the elimination of super-weapons and false gods, not in the movements of armies. There was not much they could do against the Dravanian threat. And yet, Alphinaud felt almost compelled to reassure the knight, to let him know that hope was not lost.

 

“I have no armies, nor the power to predict the Wyrm's wrath. But there are still friends who are loyal to me,” he said quietly. “Our fugitive adventurer you know well, and there are others who will heed my call. Even should the alliance remain in disarray, you are not without support should the need arise. Few though we may be, we have slain gods. We shall not hesitate to slay dragons.”

 

The commander's expression changed almost imperceptibly, the slight frown warping into the tiniest smile. “I am glad that you remember that all is not lost.” And it was only then that Alphinaud recalled that Aymeric had come to raise _his_ spirits, and not the reverse. The subtle warmth returned to his breast, reminding him that he was unaccustomed to drink, and that two glasses of wine seemed quite sufficient to warm him through the chill night.

 

They said their goodbyes then, leaving the tray for servants to clear. Alphinaud closed the door slowly and deliberately, pondering over everything that had been said. All he knew was that Ser Aymeric had come to him as a friend, and that he could not help but feel a small spark of hope at the fact, even when all else seemed lost. Something nagged at him though. He felt as if he were missing some key that would bring sense to the whole picture. He still had not found it a short time later, when he fell soundly into sleep, resting easily for the first time in a long while.


	2. The Nurse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild blood and pain.

Several days passed in the quiet of the snows, the fresh white blanket that always covered the ground seeming to absorb sound as well as heat.

 

Alphinaud was a practical young man, but he would not have risen to the heights of his political career, nor fallen from them, had he not possessed a fair degree of stubbornness. Even in summer, Coerthas never thawed, and the occasional storm could still bring daily life to a standstill. Even so, it seemed unseasonably chilly. Alphinaud could feel the cold licking directly against his skin, not just convection but the kiss of frost, conducting his heat away while he walked about as if he were in the Waking Sands rather than the land of Garuda and Shiva. But it was not only his perception, not merely the vain complaint of a man dressed for the deserts of Ul'dah and the cicada summers of the Twelveswood. He could also hear the smallfolk complain of it as he passed from his small room to his temporary office in the Intercessory, where he heard updates from Tataru and met with contacts still loyal to the Scions.

 

He had but reached the door tucked into a quiet corner of Camp Dragonhead when a commotion broke out behind him. The sound of chocobo claws against stone and shouts for medics announced the return of group of soldiers from the Eastern front. A common enough occurrence, though this time it sounded as if their battle did not go well.

 

In a way it did not concern him, but in a way he had made Ishgard's battles his own already. There was nothing that he could do, in all likelihood, but that did not stop his feet from moving and his heart from beating. With a sense of foreboding, he climbed the nearby stairs to the Aetherite and looked over the wall at the arriving soldiers.

 

It seemed as if the entire unit had sustained some manner of injury or another. Even the chocobos looked bedraggled as they were relieved of their burdens and led back to the stables. The camp's medical staff had all turned out, loading the worst-injured onto stretchers and bearing them back to the chirurgeon's knives, others supported by a shoulder or an arm, or limping stoically to a nearby wall to rest and wait for aid. Bringing up the rear was Ser Aymeric, a dark wet substance smeared across his cloak, handing over the reins of his large war chocobo and conferring with someone. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder briefly, then turned to walk stiffly towards the living quarters.

 

Something did not seem quite right. Alphinaud slipped down the stairs and wound his way through the jumble of exhausted men, women, and birds, waylaying his quarry just before he reached the door. “Ser Aymeric, you do not look well,” he said gently as he approached. “Are you certain that you do not require aid?”

 

Aymeric looked back at him, startled and perhaps not quite pleased. He stopped, and as Alphinaud approached he seemed to sway just slightly. Instinctively the smaller man reached out to steady his arm, helping him to lean against the exterior wall. “I am just... a bit tired,” said the knight, quietly and with effort. Looking up the youth noted the other man seemed to be trying not to show any pain, but the muscles of his face were drawn taut and he could hear his breaths coming quick and shallow.

 

“You are an excellent diplomat and a terrible liar,” Alphinaud answered. He frowned as if he were addressing a misbehaving child, though he didn't remove his hands from Aymeric's tensed biceps. The other man moved to clasp his own arms in return, completing the circle and seeming to derive some stability from it. Alphinaud felt an odd restlessness at the contact, unable to settle between feeling awkward from the intrusion upon the commander's space, or drinking in the slight warmth as proof against the chill air.

 

“Alphinaud... I appreciate your concern. But they are mere scratches and bruises. I will not distract from the care of mine people.” Pale eyes met his own, set and determined. He took a breath and winced again. “Please let me rest, I want only for sleep.”

 

The young diplomat sighed and rolled his eyes, a move he had learned from the adventurers and vagabonds he saw so much of. He was irritated in place of worry, but in truth, he could sympathize. It was rather like their last meeting, only their roles were reversed.

 

Alphinaud knew just how it would make the other man feel were he to offer aid. In fact, it was partially for this reason that he did precisely that.

 

“Then I shall attend to it,” he said resolutely. Not a request or a demand. Merely a fact. The hint of a smirk that played along the corner of his lip was merely a coincidence.

 

Aymeric tried to object, but all he could manage was a strangled, choking sound, followed by a great deal of shallow coughing. He released Alphinaud's arms to shrug away, turning aside in politeness but looking instead as if he were cowering miserably against the stone.

 

That sobered the younger man, conjuring his frown back into place as he imagined what could ail the knight so. The thought of broken ribs, crushed and jagged and tearing into his lungs caused him a moment of bright panic before he reigned himself in. That was ridiculous and not supported by the symptoms. But he _had_ to make sure that there was no greater damage. Internal bleeding was a serious matter, the sooner ferreted out the better.

 

The fit subsided, Aymeric finally found his voice, hollow and tired as it was. “Thank you, but no,” he said simply. He was serious now, no note of play or friendliness. The battle had not diminished his strength so much that he could not wrest free from Alphinaud's grasp, though he did so with no roughness or anger. He simply walked away as if the smaller man were no obstacle, all pretense at politeness having sublimated directly into action.

 

And had he not shown such weakness a moment before, Alphinaud would certainly have let him go.

 

“I am afraid it is not a request,” he said instead, finding the knight's blank refusal to be of little importance in the face of potential injury. “I am not convinced that you are sound, and it would be remiss of me to allow you bleed to death in your room for the sake of your pride.” He backed his words with action, falling into step behind the larger man and attempting to duck under his arm. Aymeric's body betrayed him once again and he stumbled against the wall, as if the confidence of his steps had been the most he could manage, and the complex task of either altering his stride or shrugging away was quite beyond him.

 

Aymeric glared at him. It was the coldest look he had yet received from the man, and he found he felt it viscerally. Suddenly the knight was commanding the very frost in the air.

 

And yet it only lasted a moment before he turned away, hiding his face from view as he leaned against the wall with one arm. “It has nothing to do with pride,” he said after a short pause. His words did not match his glare somehow, too soft and sore, as if they came from too deep from within his pained chest.

 

Alphinaud shrugged to himself, sensing that his resistance was largely spent at least. The remark seemed not to have been intended to communicate anything at all except to relay the knight's discomfort, one last token objection so that they could both pretend he had not agreed. “Then until you can name a valid objection, my insistence still stands. I yet have need of you. If your wounds are as trivial as you claim, then my skill shall be quite sufficient to tend them and you can be rid of me in a trice.”

 

This time when he looped his arm around the taller man's waist and pulled his gloved arm to rest on his shoulder, there was no further objection. Together they walked the rest of the way to the knight's guest room, Aymeric quiet and tense and refusing to look down at him even once.

 

The room Aymeric occasionally occupied looked much like his own, and was only a few doors further down the hall. He eased his charge into a sitting position on the bed, then began to consider the task. The other man still would not look at him, suggesting that Alphinaud had in fact underestimated his displeasure. But he supposed he would still have felt similarly. A meal delivery had been quite enough of a blow to his own pride, but a shared meal was not nearly so _invasive_. Aymeric had viewed his grief, and he had feared that he had seen it for weakness. Alphinaud was about to do far more.

 

Even knowing that, he did not even think to reconsider. The knight had brought it upon himself with his own stubbornness, just as Alphinaud had earned the man's reproach with needless self-pity. The cure for foolishness is never a pleasant potion. “I am no conjurer. I will need to see the wounds, pray remove your armor,” he said firmly as he set the kettle on the fire. The water had been intended for tea, but would do just as well for cleaning wounds.

 

There was a short silence as the demand was considered, then rejected. “Please, this is not necessary. I need only rest,” pleaded the knight. It was an uncharacteristic tone, his voice seeming to rebel against the very sentiment. Surely he had known this would be necessary. Alphinaud looked back at him scornfully, but Aymeric again turned away. Was it just the sudden heat, or was the knight blushing?

 

Playing nurse came with its own challenges, he realized. Truly, he might not have been able to bear such an indignity himself. He wouldn't back down, of course. He would bean Aymeric with the tea kettle if that's what it took to secure his compliance. So he tried another angle. Alphinaud Leveilleur would _argue_ the commander out of his clothes.

 

“That is your own blood, yes?”

 

Aymeric nodded reluctantly, frowning as though he could sense the trap ahead but placing his foot in it just the same. “Some, at least.”

 

An image flashed through the younger man's mind of the man locked in combat with a wyvern, blood-lust burning behind his eyes as his great blue sword was plunged through the creature's stomach. Savage teeth snapped ilms from the man's impassive face as wings beat at the air, struggling to stay aloft but only rending great bloody furrows in the snow. Then the creature went slack and the knight wrenched the sword free with contempt, looking only for the next victim of his wrath.

 

Alphinaud shivered involuntarily, though he sat by the roaring fire.

 

He collected his thoughts again as if he had dropped a basket of them on the floor—quickly, efficiently, and with no small measure of annoyance. Now was not the time for silly distractions, and he had long outgrown bedtime stories of adventure and heroism. “Alright,” he said, rising again and drawing a chair from the desk over to the bed, then sitting facing his charge. He rested his chin against the knuckles of one hand and peered up at the knight intently, not allowing him to shy away from the logic of his words. “And I suppose the Dravanians keep their claws clean? You don't think their blood and ichor will cause your wounds to fester?”

 

The mention of a dragon in the same sentence as the word 'clean' had worked wonders. Wide-eyed disgust followed, then another choking and coughing fit, which Alphinaud had honestly not intended but felt he deserved nonetheless. Finally the knight fixed him with a pointed glare, then began removing his clothing. He tossed each successive piece on the floor, checking some of them for damage before moving on. “Help me with the boots?” he asked in small voice, undoing some kind of clasps on the back of his legs. The youth slid out of the chair and knelt, pulling surprisingly hard to liberate the knee-covering armored boots. When he looked back up, the older man had finished removing the last layer from his broad chest, and was clad only in thick ankle-length black trousers. Their eyes met for a brief moment, Aymeric looking down at his kneeling form, eyes flashing with some unidentifiable emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the air. Then the moment passed, and he looked away and eased himself onto the bed.

 

The kettle sounded, and like the shrill call of a cavalry bugle it caused all of Alphinaud's thoughts to snap crisply into place. He rose quickly to retrieve it, looking over the other man discreetly as he passed by. His lower abdomen was a mess of shallow cuts and dried fluids, and a large yellowing mark on his chest explained the difficulty breathing. Nothing looked life-threatening, and he felt suddenly calm, not having realized the full extent his worry until it was gone. He set the brass kettle on the stone floor to cool and went to the bureau to retrieve the clean linens he knew he would find there, then rummaged through another cupboard until he found a bowl. Finally he sat down on the bed, dimpling the mattress with his weight just ilms from the prone man's stomach.

 

He had expected Aymeric to be halfway to sleep, but on closer examination his eyes were shut a little _too_ tightly. He was truly nervous. The commander would most certainly not have flinched beneath he gaze of Nidhogg himself, but undressed beneath the eyes of his friend and rival, he was as a child afraid of the healer's drought.

 

It was almost endearing.

 

Where to begin? Looking more closely, the wounds were indeed less cuts than scratches. Nothing that would need stitching, it appeared. Globules of black ichor and fibers of cloth were stuck to it, so it was well that he would be cleaning it. He was more worried about the bruise.

 

“It will hurt, but I must needs examine your ribs,” he warned. Or he thought it was a warning. Apparently it was a request, as his hands stayed still, waiting for permission. Perhaps the one mercy he could afford the man. For one brief moment, the illusion of control.

 

The knight groaned briefly, popping an eye open. For operating at half its strength, the glare was surprisingly acid. “Nothing is broken.”

 

Forget mercy. “I haven't the skills to verify that without checking manually, my apologies. If you would prefer a more qualified healer, I would be happy to let Lord Haurchefant know of your distress,” he said. His stubbornness was setting in, digging a hole and making itself at home. If the knight objected much more, he might forget his sympathy entirely and neglect to be quite as gentle as he had planned.

 

The other eye opened, now in alarm. “You wouldn't,” the knight nearly squeaked, as if Alphinaud had suggested the lord would _himself_ perform the examination.

 

That had not been his intent, but his face was scrubbed briefly blank of thought as he considered it. Surely the man would merely send for his own physician with blinding haste, but the idea of the blue-haired lord _himself_ poking and prodding the stoic knight had him chuckling instantly  behind his hands. He had not known Lord Haurchefant long at all, but something about his enthusiasm or the wild look in his too-blue eyes made the idea seem somehow plausible.  He fixed his amusement back on his reluctant patient, his grin less threatening than he intended if only due to the fairness of his youth. “Of course I would,” he said, mischief dancing in his deep sapphire eyes. “We only want what is best for you, after all.”

 

Unexpectedly, Aymeric laughed. It was a harsh, choking guffaw, and more than enough to reduce him to another  coughing fit. But then he ceased his challenge, all fight going out of him as he relaxed his limbs  and looked away . “With friends like you,” he whispered vaguely, gravel rolling beneath his voice, defiant even in  defeat. “ I yield. Do as you will. ”

 

All the amusement left Alphinaud with the knight's labored coughing. He did rather enjoy jousting with the knight, but there could be no pleasure in moving him to laughter when it brought him pain as well. So he simply went to work, worrying the corner of his lip beneath his teeth as he considered the problem at hand.

 

Even with permission, one did not simply _touch_ Ser Aymeric. It seemed wrong somehow, almost an act of theft. Alphinaud lifted his hands and held them over the knight's stomach, not even touching him yet, merely letting his fingers twitch as he planned his attack. The larger man was lithe, but muscular enough that his ribs would likely be difficult to locate, and Alphinaud hardly had the experience to make up for it. He would need to wing it, sound around for his pain like dowsing for water in the desert, and hope that the knight's mortification would distract from his own shyness and clumsiness.

 

He started by splaying his fingers across the hollow his stomach, below the ribs. A known location, a point of comparison. Aymeric seemed to flinch at the contact, startled out of his avoidance to look down at the probing fingers that Alphinaud was having to work to keep still. Instead he registered the sensation clinically. Soft, stretched over hard muscle but still yielding beneath the pads of his fingertips.

 

The knight seemed to breathe harshly, a ragged sigh, as if he needed to remind himself to breathe. It served to remind the younger man as well, remind him to carry on, even if it would be to cause the man pain. He swallowed nervously and dragged his thumbs upwards, over the barely perceptible ridge of bone that marked the start of his ribcage. He could feel it move, lifting and retracting as Aymeric breathed shallowly, driving the expansion of his lungs and his striving for breath.

 

His eyes flicked upwards, watching the knight as he pressed softly against the bone. Aymeric seemed to take a moment to realize that he was being watched, instead following the younger man's movements with a dazed expression. He pushed slightly harder, watching closely for any sign of discomfort and feeling for the slightest give or wiggle of solid bone. There was none, the knight finally breaking from his trance to meet his eyes and give a small nod. There was only the slight rise and fall of the older man's chest, and a curious, guarded expression on his face.

 

Alphinaud let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He could do this. He raised his thumbs a half-ilm, unsure of where one rib stopped and the next began. There was less give than over the man's stomach, he could feel the presence of unyielding bone for certain. But other than that, there was scarcely any way to tell one rib from the next. So he settled for pushing, lightly at first, and then moving his thumbs back and forth as he pressed. Aymeric narrowed his eyes at him, the movement perhaps being uncomfortable in itself, but would do no more than that. Only the beginnings of what might someday become a glare, save for the blankness behind his eyes. So he continued, another half-ilm, another press and wiggle. No response. Another movement, tracing his eyes down now to the pale skin stretched over solid bone and muscle, returning again to the icy-blue eyes that watched him impassively, steadily.

 

He was trying not to think. But Alphinaud had never been particularly skilled at holding his thoughts still. They fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, ever at work, ever beating for their next sip of nectar. It was a mechanical task, of touch and sense and sight and empathy. He could not help but observe the tremor in Aymeric's breath as he traced his fingers toward the next spot, a soft touch in an attempt to soothe and reassure, but seeming to have the opposite effect. He could not help but wonder if that was fear he saw behind his eyes, flashing briefly as he pressed, searching for pain and finding naught that made any sense. He could only speculate distantly on the reason, the hummingbird never coming to light on any real answer, never darting forward to perch on his tongue. Only... wondering, deep in the meadows of his own mind, while the rest of him worked at his task. Touching, feeling, watching.

 

At length he reached the bruised area. It stretched diagonally from his right side over the left pectoral, the discoloration uneven and turning slightly green in some places. Aymeric had been wearing a breastplate beneath his cloak, which would have absorbed and redirected a portion of any strike. The blow was heavy indeed, to bruise so much over such a large area. “What did this to you,” he asked, voice neutral and even. In reality, he was not neutral. There was a small place deep within him that keened low with anger, fuzzy around the edges and wild, as if he had drunk too deeply of the knight's thoughts and was now feeling emotions that did not belong to him.

 

Carefully, softly, he positioned his fingers over the lower edge of the wound, a hand on each side of his chest. Aymeric winced even from the light brush of skin, and he truly regretted that it was his job just now to cause pain rather than heal.

 

“Tail, I think an Aevis,” answered the knight, the reply cutting short with a hitched breath as Alphinaud pressed still harder, verifying that despite the pain, there was nothing that would warrant a skilled healer. He continued upward, continuing to lock eyes with his patient. The gaze had begun tense and guarded, but it had become less so as he had moved. Now it seemed simply a form of communication, data to collect, like the beating of the knight's heart and the movement of his lungs.

 

“Come to think of it,” the youth said, pressing again in a new location, “what was the Lord Commander doing on the battlefield?” Not that he doubted the man's strength. But he had thought his office rather more... political in nature. Leadership was about more than waving a sword around, after all, no matter how skilled one might be at the task.

 

In response Aymeric grunted and winced in pain, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth visibly. Alphinaud flinched as well, in sympathetic reflex as if he had been plugged into the other man's nerves and felt the pain himself. Still, nothing seemed to move under the assault. The bone was sound, it was the flesh that was weak. Regretfully, he continued, though his fingers trembled slightly as they moved.

 

The knight recovered after only a moment, speaking through the pain. Perhaps he needed the distraction. “We believed we had located a heretic of key significance.” He paused to breathe, opening his eyes again to meet Alphinaud's own, restoring the severed contact and steadying the younger man's will. “They refer to him as the 'Geomancer.' He is said to be developing some new magical weapon, of tremendous power.” His voice was low, and he took his time in forming his words. “We thought we had trailed him to Providence Point, but it was an ambush. They are too often a step ahead.”

 

Alphinaud frowned in thought, remembering how Iceheart had suddenly stripped the Steps of Faith of their outer magical wards, wondering at what new stratagem such people could devise. His fingers traced soothing circles on the other man's side as he paused, distracted.

 

The wings had ceased to beat. Thoughts turned to vivid battle, leaving Alphinaud alone with the knight, touching him without feeling and looking without quite seeming to see.

 

The knight's eyelids lowered subtly, and his heavy gaze no longer seemed to quite communicate, fascinating but opaque like polished opals. A wavering discomfort returned, and Alphinaud blinked it away as if he had kept his eyes open overlong. It was like that he had, staring too much and too avidly, sifting for the knight's pain like a miner panning for gold, finding all manner of flotsam and nonsense instead.

 

He reigned in his thoughts and his gaze both. Instead he brought his palms up to press on the thick pectoral muscles that obscured his access to the rest of the ribs. The wince was less severe this time, and he moved his hands only once more before deciding his patient was sound.

 

When he had finished, he found himself once again trapped by the knight's gaze. It was no longer tense or fraught, nor open or pained. It was almost... curious. Appraising. As if the man below him, having borne up all his own secrets, sought now to catalogue Alphinaud's own trove of hurts and pains.

 

He was suddenly aware of a warmth in his chest and face that must have been growing for some time as he worked, catching him unaware. Without thinking, he looked away, hiding from those eyes that threatened to expose all his thoughts, even those to which he was not privy himself.

 

“Forgive me,” Aymeric said, startled from his trance and turning away as well.

 

Alphinaud noted the growing feeling of embarrassment, without quite knowing why. He felt like a child caught stealing a honeycake. “For playing target dummy for a dragon's claws?” When in doubt, redirect. “Just this once. The next time you shall not be so lucky.” And he meant that part. Truly he did.

 

Quickly moving back to the nearby chair, restoring distance and professionalism both, he reached for the kettle and some cloth. The water had cooled just enough not to burn him as he wet a small towel and wrung it out, then applied it gently to the edge of a large scrape. A sharp hiss alerted him to the stinging pain of the raw flesh beneath. After a moment Aymeric relaxed, closing his eyes as if soothed.

 

“This helps?” The question came out more softly than he had expected. The younger man was not accustomed to spending effort to achieve his aloof demeanor. Being near Aymeric seemed to have the effect of keeping him off-balance, as if he were trying to place a marble in the bottom of a bowl, and the knight was flicking it away with his fingers every time it settled in the center.

 

“Stings but... it's warm,” came the mumbled reply. The voice was quiet and echoing and deep, and it made him feel strangely warm himself to hear it. He found himself resisting the urge to stroke the man comfortingly, as he might a child. Instead he reached for another cloth, wet a larger area and applied it gently to another scrape. Another hiss of pain greeted him, followed by a small whimper. It was a tiny, weak sound, catching in Alphinaud's ears and making him feel strangely guilty for having heard it.

 

It was easier to bear now that he no longer had to meet the other man's eyes. It no longer mattered that the hummingbird had given up and gone to sleep, leaving him no explanations for his discomfort. Instead he moved with deliberate care, the sure, quick movements of one who wasted nothing, not even grace. Alphinaud was skilled at taking on the appearance of confidence. With luck it might fool them both.

 

He lifted the first cloth to examine the wound, immersing himself into his role, finding that he could, in fact, be fooled by his own surety. Much of the dirt and blood came away with the cloth, leaving a series of shallow cuts and patches of skin scraped red and raw. He poured more water over the cloth and wrung it out, frowning at the discoloration that pooled into the bowl, and replaced it to press gently into the skin once again. He repeated the same treatment with the other cloth, mindful not to look the other man in the eye as he made another soft sound of contentment, relaxing subtly as if he were slowly merging into the mattress below.

 

After a moment he judged the initial area clean enough, picking out a few small pebbles and bits of debris from among the tiny droplets of fresh blood. And then he moved on to the next scrape, his confidence no longer an act now that the physician had established a procedure, and the patient had ceased to unseat his calm.

 

This time the knight made hardly a sound, his breathing deep and even. Alphinaud risked a look upward, expecting to see that the man had finally nodded off. But he was still watching his movements with half-lidded eyes, like a coeurl kitten on the cusp of sleep.

 

A tiny smile touched the younger man's lips, alighting just for a moment before he could chase it away. He continued his ministrations.

 

When he had finished there was not a speck of foreign matter in the wounds, merely angry pink skin where the knight's body was already beginning to reject infection, clot the tiny red pearls of blood, and stitch the wounds gradually closed. Alphinaud reached for his grimoire, able at least to speed the process and increase the chances of success. He looked up one of his most basic spells, considering it carefully, making sure there was no mistake in his mind though it was well familiar to him. Then, with a flourish he cast it, allowing the aetherial energy to cascade free. It passed from his body to his grimoire, running through the conductive ink and gaining form, before echoing out through his fingertips to channel into the resting man's wounds. Immediately they seemed to pale, angry red and yellow patches fading and cuts closing almost completely.

 

He let out a nervous breath, more relieved than he should have been to be clear of the ordeal. “That is all I can do with my meager magicks,” he said. “You should have no chance of festering now, and a shorter recovery. How is the bruise?”

 

Heavily-lidded eyes snapped up, blinking as if waking from a dream. The knight breathed deeply, pressing a hand to his chest. Then he coughed, though not as violently and hoarsely as before, no longer causing Alphinaud to ache in sympathy. “It seems much improved,” he said. “Sleep shall mend what little you have not. Thank you. You should not have troubled yourself, but I am grateful.”

 

Alphinaud was half-way to a teasing grin, but could not be bothered to sharpen it fully. It came out more as a vague warmth, softening his words rather than tempering them to bite. “You should not have troubled to bring me supper, yet here we are. Consider the debt re-payed.” And there was that feeling again, he was dimly aware, the feeling that he was missing something. As if there were an imp in the room, glamored in shadow, making rude gestures and laughing at his ignorance.

 

“I shall take my leave, then,” he finished, standing and stretching his arms over his head, un-boxing all the tension he had stored up and discarding it completely. “Should you have need of me, I shall be in my room. Pray do not hesitate to call.”

 

“Yes, mother,” came the mumbled reply, and a moment later it seemed that Ser Aymeric had fallen completely asleep, one hand draped carelessly on his bare stomach. Alphinaud grabbed a discarded sheet from the floor and threw it over him before letting himself out. He was losing a pitched battle with a smile that fought for possession of his face. And he didn't really mind, in the end. As long as his rival could not see it, he could bear the burden of a little shard of contentment, for just a little while.


	3. The Priest

In the depth of the Coerthan night, a knock sounded on the door.

 

It was late. Nearly midnight, Alphinaud reckoned, the hour of darkest night and deepest cold. Even Lord Haurchefant was ordinarily abed, or at least well out of his hair, by this hour. He quickly set aside his quill and went to the door to greet whomever was in such dire need to call upon him.

 

He nearly slammed the door in the visitor's face when he saw him.

 

Instead, he leaned helplessly against the wall by the door to make way for Ser Aymeric to enter. He did his best to conceal his face behind his hands as he slid down the wall a few ilms in mortification.

 

"What has Tataru demanded this time," he groaned. He had truly thought the problem solved. The very day following his surprise supper guest, weeks ago now, he had explained in no uncertain terms the damage her innocent worrying could have done for their cause. He had impressed upon her the value of Ser Aymeric as a diplomatic champion who nonetheless respected their strength. She had apologized immediately, stricken by the unintended consequences of her words, and had seemed quite sincere in her promise never to repeat the mistake.

 

Ser Aymeric was undeterred, balancing a large ceramic pitcher which he placed on the low table before the fire. When Alphinaud had the courage to look up again, he had poured them each a mug of some steaming drink, and was reclining in the plush chair in his regal way, breathing the vapors from his cup. "Nothing at all," he replied at length. His face ever showed the serene blankness of a fresh snow, but the twinkle of his eyes and the tiny impish curl of his lips betrayed his mirth. "It is mine own initiative. I saw the light beneath your door as I passed by."

 

Tataru had, of course, also insisted that she had not pressed the supper visit upon the other man, merely mentioning that Alphinaud had hardly been eating since his arrival. One of them was at the very least exaggerating the truth. Alphinaud was beginning to realize his initial guess at which may have been _wrong_.

 

He filed the thought away for later, a tired sort of surrender to the irrationality of his life of late. Choosing instead to deal with the issue at hand, he straightened from his undignified slouching against the wall and went to sit with his unwelcome guest. "By all means, then, do come in. Make yourself at ease," he said more to emphasize the liberties taken than to welcome. "What import brings you here in the dead of night?"

 

In response the knight handed him the second mug, a pleasant scent of spice and fruit tickling his nose. "I am come only just now, on the eve of battle. On the morrow, we strike the Geomancer's warren and raze his unholy magicks into dust and ash." The commander blew softly on his own drink and sipped a tiny bit, making a face when it proved too hot. "It is cold, I am weary, battle calls at dawn. Share with me a cup of mulled wine," he said with quiet solemnity, "that mine thoughts may turn to warmer things."

 

What could any man say to that? Alphinaud, once again defeated, only raised his cup in salute, then blew to cool the wine and sip cautiously. The man's tongue was silvered indeed, that he could feel mortification in one instant and humility in the next. The thought that Aymeric would seek him out for such companionship mirrored the pleasant heat that spread trough his limbs as the wine settled.

 

"Warms the quick, does it not?" observed the knight. Alphinaud could only agree.

 

As promised, they talked of their happier memories. To the table Ser Aymeric brought stories of great battles, dreams of his youth, and old friends. “Estinien has ever been a thorn in the side of his 'betters,' if only because he disagreed,” he mused. Alphinaud had known that the Lord Commander and the Azure Dragoon had been friends, but was surprised to hear the stories of their battles together. As well as what else they'd gotten up to, in that time.

 

“I began to fear every time we were assigned a new post. The third time our commanding officer ran screaming from his tent in the middle of the night, naked as a shaved karakul, I resolved to do what I could to counter his mischief. It became a deadly game, watching each-other warily over dinner, then sneaking off in the night to hide clothing or blankets in strategic locations while he was soaking undershorts in water... or filling them with _nettles_.”

 

Alphinaud laughed, no longer missing his time alone, only basking in the smiles the other man shared along with the wine. “I have never heard of such a war,” he said. “Who was victorious?”

 

“He was, of course,” frowned the commander, waving his hand vaguely toward the past. “Being the instigator he always had the initiative, and I could only react to his schemes. I was never a prankster mineself. I understand now that mine motives made the endeavor quite futile. If I had wanted truly to succeed, I would have needs become a mischief-maker mineself, not merely sought to reduce the effect and the punishments. I was able only to soften his blows, ofttimes, or if I was very lucky, to induce the victim to laugh at his own expense. But it was in response to my meddling that Estinien grew ever more bold, and before long, I too was a target in a game that I had wished to end from the first.”

 

The smile on Aymeric's lips as he savored the wine indicated that he no longer regretted his actions. “In the end, I was able to secure ceasefire only through surrender. I bore his assaults, and gave him no reply. And thus I learned that, even for a knight, it is sometimes only through defeat that one might accomplish one's aims. Once I no longer opposed him, he found that he no longer took joy in the suffering of his superiors, as the challenge had all gone out of it. I still see him glower at me, on occasion. I suspect he feels that in surrendering, I betrayed his friendship more than by standing against him.”

 

“Surely,” suggested Alphinaud from behind his cup, “it would not be difficult to gain access to his rooms. You could lock a goobuey in there, or replace his armor polish with green dye, and make him truly happy again.”

 

Aymeric laughed, joyfully and without restraint. It was astonishing to hear, light and sonorous, with his mouth open and his hand clutched to his chest. It was the first undignified display he'd seen from the knight, if he didn't count the suffering he'd endured at the younger man's hands, which he still felt strangely guilty for. But especially in laughter his voice was beautiful, and he could not help but join.

 

“Nay,” said the knight, through a hedge of chuckles that did not seem to want to die. “Such a thing would be more dangerous than you could imagine. One does not raise a sword to the Azure Dragoon and expect to emerge with his dignity intact. I rather enjoy not having to look over mine shoulder as I lay down to sleep, nor have my food tasted by some innocent person tasked with being a martyr for mine tongue. No, I assure you, I remember far too well the dangers of treading that path. I will bear any accusation of cowardice, head held high.”

 

“What has he done to you to make you fear his wrath more than a dragon's fire, pray tell?” asked Alphinaud, the corners of his lips turning more than was decent, imagination springing to life in wicked joy.

 

The other man's eyes narrowed to sleepy slits, serpentine and guarded as though the young Elezen were his old enemy, on the battlefield once more. “If you are so curious, you are welcome to challenge him yourself,” he said, and his voice slid into a warm, amused growl that Alphinaud felt all through the length of his spine.

 

For his part, young Alphinaud contributed memories of his grandfather, and the fantastical adventures he had imagined with his twin sister. They had thought they would save the world, someday. The memories were bittersweet still, like the sharp spices that punctuated the dark wine. He took a long pull of his second cup, quite cool now, and found it emptied.

 

The cup was filled again, the pitcher's belly finally emptied. "Your sister, how fares she? I cannot but imagine the beauty she has become," Aymeric teased, perhaps sensing the turn of his companion's mood. The jackal had sensed weakness, and circled to cull the herd.

 

"Tsch, she is well as ever. We parted paths some time ago, though it was she who orchestrated our recent rescue." Bitter indeed. He would have been drawn back into his melancholy had his companion not raised one eyebrow with a subtle grin, reminding him suddenly that Aymeric was a _man_ and his sister a young _woman_ , and making him suddenly quite irate. "You shall be disappointed to know that even friends often struggle to tell between us. We even dress alike. She has no need for finery or suitors," he added pointedly. And well that she hadn't.

 

"Ah," the knight surprised him by replying, "if she takes after you, she must be a beauty indeed." Amusement mixed with something like flirtation played across his features, his grin sly and thin like a fox.

 

"You think me a woman, how charming," Alphinaud bit back with venom, but he was blushing, and he knew it. A creeping feeling tickled the back of his neck, something akin to deja vu. The wine had gone to his head, making him feel slightly out if his own control.

 

"On the contrary, I find you to be a man most extraordinary." Sharp eyes still danced puckishly, but gone was the grin. "Too often you sell yourself short. But you have moved mountains to bend their ears to you, when the might of nations could not. And know that the friends you keep do not promise their loyalties lightly." He let the last declaration hang in the air a moment, his eyes uncharacteristically losing their bright focus. "I certainly do not," he added quietly, as if no-one were there to hear but his wine.

 

The silence weighed heavily in the room, stretching itself around every chair, resting on the table and weighting down papers on the desk. At length, Alphinaud found his tongue to reply. "Then I am honored that you count yourself one of them." An odd pressure in his chest informed him that the words had been inadequate somehow, but he could grasp for no more.

 

The Lord Commander smiled at him, warmth flashing but a moment before he returned to his cup. Whatever serious mood had seized him refused to relent, and he swirled the remains of his drink morosely. The other man had teased him so easily out of his melancholy, but Alphinaud found himself reluctant to intrude on the knight's private thoughts. He contented himself with watching the narrow fingers that held the clay mug flex and bend. The man before him displayed such strength and grace, both requirements for his station. The easy laughter and quiet melancholy, though, seemed at that moment for him alone. He felt oddly grateful to be privy to either.

 

Finally, the sullen knight downed the last gulp of wine, whatever use it was to him having played its course. His voice was soft but clear like a cathedral's bell ringing in the distance. “Do you know what happens to those accused of heresy?"

 

Alphinaud searched his dusty lumber room for the answer, the drink making him fumble. He felt he had heard it before... a sense of dread pooled in his stomach, wondering at the reason for the question.

 

"No," he responded at length. He searched the other man's face for answers to entirely different questions, but he received none. Cutting blue eyes communicated nothing, merely staring into the middle of the room, with an expression too tired and listless to be fully considered a frown.

 

"Well that you don't," was all Ser Aymeric would say in reply.

 

The conversation had wound down, like a top that was too tired to spin any longer. The wine had aided it to a gentle peace, and were it not for the uneasiness of his heart, Alphinaud might have fallen asleep in his chair. Aymeric begged his excuse not long after, bidding farewell with a fond smile, only slightly dim. “Thank you for the solace of your company, friend.”

 

The younger man paused by the door, considering his reply as though the weight of the world rested on it. He would have thought an admonishment would spring to his lips, perhaps a reminder of the last time the knight had gone fearlessly into battle. But somehow Alphinaud did not feel that embarrassment and bruises were the worst that could befall him, and it did not feel right to trivialize his danger, when such anxiety rode on his shoulders.

 

“May the gods keep you safe,” he said instead, clasping the other man's forearms briefly. “May they guard you and your people, and ensure the success of your mission.”

 

He might have been imagining it, but the knight had seemed to duck his pale eyes briefly at the benediction.

 

Alphinaud had been tired, relaxed and delightfully sleepy, but it took some time for his mind to settle into the deep grooves in his skull and cease its movement. Their conversation had been warm and easy until Aymeric had promised his friendship. And it was then that he had sunk into a melancholy and refused to emerge. The older man was a warrior, and a leader. No doubt he was no stranger to suffering, and the wine could have stirred up any number of memories that were better left buried.

 

But, like the fluttering wings of his own thoughts, flitting round and round on suspicions he could not even name, he knew there was a deeper story here. There was simply no reason for the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights to be speaking of heresy save as something to root out and destroy.

 

No reason, save one.

 

It was preposterous. So ridiculous that he could hardly entertain it. But still the doubt nagged at his mind, mingling with vague memories of reports from the Stone Vigil affair, until finally his thoughts turned to dreams.

 

When Alphinaud awoke some bells later, startled by a commotion in the hallway, they all slipped away like melted snowflakes. He could remember only one thing, one chill piece of ice remaining on his tongue. Aymeric had said to him, quite clearly, “I stand accused of heresy,” and then the knight had fallen, fallen, and his hands could clutch only the empty air.


	4. The Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees the introduction of an original character. Fear not, she isn't here to steal anyone's spotlight, nor is she based on anyone.

Alphinaud rubbed at his eyes with displeasure. He had suspected the wine might affect him in the morning, but he had not anticipated being awoken mere bells later. Camp Dragonhead was naturally a quiet place unless an armed unit was moving through, and Tataru only disturbed him in his room if an urgent matter required attention. The anxiety he felt was irrational, he knew, just his dreams giving him strange ideas. But he hastily assembled himself, splashing cold water on his face both for the cleansing and shocking effects, and stepped out the door.

 

A gaggle of serving women scurried down the hall, carrying piles of thick blankets in any way they could hold onto them. Some dragged on the stone floor, but the maids payed them no heed in their rush. One, in fact, a short mousy-haired Miqo'te, rushed into him headlong as he tried to shrink into the wall, blankets flying in several directions. The other girls payed her no mind and were around the corner and away within moments.

 

"Terribly sorry, Milord, beg yer pardon!" Ordinarily he would feel the need to reassure her there was no offense, but no sooner had she executed a mere half curtsy than she was already ducking to retrieve the blankets, dropping one several times as she tried to fit three under one arm.

 

He grabbed it from her and helped pick up the remainder. "What's happened? Where are these bound in such a hurry?" He had never seen serving staff abandon their polite demeanor without cause.

 

The maiden made an agonized face of indecision, gritting her teeth openly, and reddening in embarrassment. The, she seemed to make a decision, rising to her full height and sticking her tail straight up. "Beggin' Milord's pardon, but these blankets are sore needed! A fell storm's fallen, and there's soldiers freezin' in the courtyard!" With the hand freed by the blankets Alphinaud now held, she actually pushed him bodily down the hall with her until he began to move with appropriate haste on his own.

 

It did not take long, even if the report made little sense. If it was soldiers who needed assistance, Ser Aymeric might be in danger himself. The adrenaline already in his system kicked in, and he rushed ahead of her into the frigid mid-morning air.

 

He was momentarily blinded by the whiteness of the light that filtered over the sanctum's walls. He blinked a few times to adjust, struck by the knife-like chill in the moist air as it filtered into his lungs, burning his nose even on the exhale. That this could be a mere early-summer storm defied all sense.

 

In the time it took him to adjust, the maid burst out of the door behind him. “This-a-way, Milord, no time!” She shoved at him again until he was following meekly behind her, looking about in astonishment. It was clear that the only reason the courtyard was so still lay in the magical wards set about the walls of the camp. They flickered purple and blue on occasion as gusts howled against them, the burnt odor of aether and electricity contributing to the deadening of his sense of smell.

 

There were far fewer men and women filtering through the gate this time, and their condition seemed all the worse. They huddled their arms to their chest, shaking, some of them. Others were frighteningly still as they took shelter against a wall. The ones near the door huddled in blankets already, some in groups of two to share the heat, others leaning into their cavalry chocobos, which cooed plaintively. The maid picked her way around the camp, dropping off blankets to those who had none or seemed to require a second, then took the bundles from him and distributed them as well. She offered words of encouragement, pointing toward the hall where Lord Haurchefant entertained visitors and entreating them to seek shelter.

 

Alphinaud's eyes continued to scan the camp, looking for the shock of deep blue that would signal that his friend was safe. He spied Tataru exiting another building with a few other servants, wheeling around a great steaming cook-pot and dispensing cups to all they could reach. It was in Tataru's nature to help any she could, and he was cheered to remember that he could rely upon her.

 

Now, though, there was only one person he cared to find. He turned to the man nearest him, a knight of lower rank attempting to calm his chocobo. “Has your Commander returned yet? Where is he?”

 

The knight returned him a pained look, gripping the blanket wrapped tightly about his shoulders. “I have not seen him since he sounded retreat at the gates of Natalan. When the storm fell... I have never seen such a thing. It is fell witchcraft, mark my words!”

 

“He is still out there?” Alphinaud seized the man by the shoulders, “are you certain?”

 

The man would not meet his eyes, tracing them instead to the gate. Shouts sounded and loud clanks of metal as the portcullis slid closed, sealing the magical barrier against the strange storm. “He did not return. Many did not return.”

 

The white-haired youth froze then, fingers seizing on the man's blanket-wrapped armor. It seemed everything was still. No thoughts played through his mind, no sounds entered his ears, no sight registered from his blankly staring eyes. He did not even draw breath, the burning in his lungs subsiding for a moment as the air warmed from his body heat.

 

Then, he heard the whistle of the war chocobo, nuzzling its rider for comfort.

 

He didn't think. He didn't speak. He just moved.

 

In an instant the reins of the poor bird were in his hands, and then he was upon it, and then they were running. There was a shout behind him but the words did not register, mere noise on the wind. Ser Aymeric was out there. More shouts sounded as he directed the large chocobo through the courtyard, navigating around some people and over others. Ser Aymeric was in the storm. A shrill voice screamed out at him, one he knew well, but he could not bring himself to listen. Ser Aymeric was without shelter, possibly freezing to death. The chocobo's great claws pounded up the stairway that led to the Aetherite. Ser Aymeric needed him. It didn't matter that he had no plan.

 

The great bird bore him inexorably toward the top of the Eastern wall, shimmering with magical energy and sparkling with ice and snow beyond. At the last moment, he pulled his hood over his head, adjusting the goggles over his eyes. He prayed that the barrier would allow him to pass.

 

He prayed, without words, only an image in his mind, of the man whom he would not allow to die.

 

The aetherial barrier crackled and stung him as he passed through, but pass he did. The bird leaped mightily to the ground, its flexible legs cushioning them both from harm. It was jarring and the bird barked with displeasure, but they were fine. Immediately, snows swirled before his vision, blinding him utterly.

 

Tataru Taru was a practical woman. When they had arrived at Camp Dragonhead, she had secured for them both cold-weather attire. She often wore her fur-lined parka about the camp, always warm and cozy no matter how far she was from a roaring fire. Alphinaud had left his unopened in his room, habit and stubbornness dictating that he move from warm room to cold winds as if nothing had changed. He had grown accustomed to feeling the chill air against his sides, even in the coldest night.

 

Now he regretted it. The air in the courtyard had been cold indeed, but the winds driving against him now had him chill to the bone in mere moments. If he did not find shelter himself, and soon, he would die.

 

The gate behind him had closed. He was certain they would open it again to admit him, but he refused himself the option of retreat. Instead, he kicked his heels into the bird's withers and drove onward, hoping the sporadic winds would allow them to see just enough to get by.

 

They did not.

 

They had traveled for some yalms, roughly Eastward of the wall. He had tried to bear South along the path to Natalan, but his reckoning was wild. When the bird's claw slipped sickeningly beneath him, he knew why. Together, he and the stolen chocobo tumbled over the edge of the chasm known only as the Witchdrop.

 

Time stood still as they fell. He didn't even bother to scream, just gasped uselessly with burning lungs. For a space, he was weightless, moving through air that seemed empty of wind, snow, or feeling.

 

Alphinaud's first thought had been regret that he could not reach Aymeric. Then, belatedly, he thought of the chocobo he had driven to a futile death.

 

Then time ticked forward. All too soon the bird struck ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he slammed against the saddle. He rolled sideways and hit the ground, feeling rock and snow and ice and cold. And feeling. He lay still for a moment, shoulder throbbing and chest aching.

 

A low whistle sounded in his ear. A beak nudged his cheek cautiously. He lived. They both lived.

 

A few moments more and he forced his lungs to draw breath. He spasmed and coughed, feeling utterly wretched but beautifully alive.

 

He sat up, eyes opening again to see the white-painted sky over him. Winds still blew sharp shards of ice over the edge of the walls above him, but by comparison the air was blessedly still here. Casting his gaze back to his surroundings, he immediately understood why they yet lived. A long winding ledge ran from the mouth of the chasm all the way to its floor, and it was upon it that he had landed. The drop itself extended far below him, every bit as deadly as ever. He had been lucky. The bird stood beside him miserably, but despite its hung head and close-held wings, it stood steady and strong.

 

He placed a gentle hand on the bird's head. “I'm sorry, friend.” It sounded a low note in appreciation, nuzzling his hand.

 

Then he saw it. It was difficult to see in the depths of the cavern, but a twinkle of polished metal caught his eye on the ledge a few yalms down. Heart pounding, he approached it slowly, taking care with the planting of his feet. The chocobo followed a few paces behind him, misguidedly following his abuser.

 

Blood pounded in his ears. Finally he reached the spot, knelt carefully, and brushed aside the snow.

 

It revealed a familiar silver and blue greatsword.

 

Heedless of aught else, he rushed down the path, slipping and eventually sliding down in some portions, knees and shins bruising. He was here, he must be. The cliffs offered shelter from the cold and wind, and it might well be that he was still alive. He reached the bottom, where the snows fell the thinnest. A wide patch of rock was visible where something had dragged the snows aside. He followed, heart in his throat, to find a cavern tucked into the back of the cave. And there in its mouth, was the man he sought.

 

 


	5. The Knave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains highly explicit content, as well as some blood and pain.
> 
> It is dedicated to Yuna, without whom I would not have had the courage to write it.

Without thinking Alphinaud was on his knees, ripping off his hood to see better in the dim light filtering into the cavern. Ser Aymeric was huddled under his cloak, still as the snows. He brushed the thick wet fabric aside to reveal his face, eyes closed and skin ashen. Hands dashed to his throat, feeling for warmth, a pulse. In response the man drew a ragged, trembling breath.

 

Alphinaud nearly threw himself down upon him in relief. Instead, he reached unsteady hands to his grimoire, finding the simple curative spell that he feared would do little good. It took a full minute for him to clear his head enough to cast, but when he placed his hand back on the pale throat, the knight's breathing had eased. Moments later, dark lashes fluttered open, greeting him with unfocused eyes.

 

“An angel has been sent for me,” the prone knight breathed quietly. “I thought for certain I had failed.” Aymeric's eyes drifted closed again, an expression on his face bordering on the beatific.

 

The panic that had been raging through Alphinaud's body suddenly peaked, and he lurched forward to grip the other man's arms and shake him. “You are not going to die, you wine-sotted fool! Aymeric, look at me!”

 

Pale blue eyes opened again, more focused this time. “Truly, 'tis you? Alphinaud...” a searching hand gripped his wrist, weak and barely warm. “Glad. Stay with me.” His eyes closed yet again, and he relaxed his grip.

 

Panic eased only a little, Alphinaud wracked his mind for a way to keep the both of them alive until the storm passed. The cave was shelter, but its stone walls would steal their warmth straight away. He looked behind him to the chocobo, which had eased itself to the floor and was huddling miserably in a ball. A bag lay behind his saddle, and he unpacked it to find the extent of their survival kit: a few logs of oiled wood wrapped in two thin blankets, a flint and steel, some bars of compressed grain, and a canteen of water.

 

The fire came first. The wood ignited easily, though it burned slowly and gave little warmth. It was better than nothing.

 

The real problem now was their clothing. By now the chill air hardly bothered him; enough ice and snow had melted into his tunic to chatter his teeth. Alphinaud quickly stripped to his smallclothes, feeling oddly relieved to be naked and dry. He could now feel the faint glow of the fire chasing away some of the chill of the air.

 

Of course, Aymeric would be in much the same condition, with the added irritation of the conductive metal. He rolled him gently onto his back, and began to search for the clasps that held together his heavy armor. The knight's eyes opened again, black curls framing his face in dancing shadows. His ghostly-pale cheeks reddened slightly as clear eyes took all of his rescuer in. “Alphinaud, what...”

 

“I'm not going to let you freeze to death, no matter how much you seem to want to,” the youth replied testily. Giving up on the breastplate, he reached for the boots, which he at least had experience with. The metal was like ice in his hands, and they fought him mightily, the lining having expanded with moisture. He tossed them away and huffed with effort, glaring upward at the other man from between his legs. Aymeric groaned with resignation then, and weakly reached to unclasp his armor. Together they worked the majority of it free, Alphinaud helping him to sit up and lift the embroidered tabard over his head, then slipping one of the blankets beneath him as he eased back down.

 

It proved to be an excellent way to check for injuries, as well. Much to his relief his limbs were whole and sound, if sore, no dragon-claws marring his pale chest. What worried him, though, were the flakes of black blood clotting in his hair. He had evidently struck his head at some point, which may have contributed to the knight's disorientation and sleepiness. Of course, hypothermia could do that too.

 

What he failed to notice, in his haste and worry, was how close they were. Not until he sat between his knees, his fingers already working at the man's belt. Hands closed around his wrists to stop him. He looked up to see Aymeric staring at him imploringly. “Please, you mustn't.”

 

He was suddenly aware of the dryness of his throat. Part of him wanted to rage and call him a fool, but his own nervousness stopped him. “I won't as long as you will,” he answered, backing away. He tossed the other blanket over to him and took to arranging the clothing to dry by the fire, kneeling on the frigid floor and counting the seconds until he could no longer hear the rustle of fabric. Finally it stopped, and he looked back see Aymeric reclining sheepishly beneath the other blanket, the heavy trousers having been tossed to join the heap.

 

“That wasn't so difficult, was it?” He crawled to the other side of the blanket, facing the wall, giving his companion the space closer to the fire. Aymeric looked stricken but was mercifully silent as he slipped beneath, cautiously draping an arm over the broad chest. His skin was no longer clammy, but it was still cool to the touch. He scooted close, pressing his body against his companion's side. The knight surprised him then, lifting his arm to wrap around his back, pressing them together and making him slightly dizzy. For the first time in over a bell, he allowed himself to relax, laying his heavy head on the other man's shoulder, feeling the cold slowly dissipate and the skin against him begin to warm.

 

It was so tempting to fall asleep like that.

 

“We have to stay awake,” he mumbled miserably after a few moments. “You've got hypothermia, a concussion, or both.” He felt a rumble deep in the other man's chest, a murmur of disapproval.

 

“I'll stay awake. You sleep,” offered Aymeric.

 

“You can't be serious. You'll fall asleep straight away.”

 

A deep sigh reverberated below him. “Yes, that was the plan. It was worth a try.”

 

“Talk to me.” Alphinaud's anxiety surfaced again, pressing words from his mouth. “What were you trying to tell me last night? You didn't do this deliberately—”

 

“No, no, _n_ _o!_ ” A savage growl sounded, cutting him off, somehow frightening and reassuring at the same time. After a moment, he felt the other man lift his hand to clasp the one draped across his chest. The unexpected intimacy of the gesture took Alphinaud's breath away. He had tried to ignore the compromising nature of their position, but now the hands wrapped about him seemed to embrace him as a lover. A strange dissonance possessed him, as if he had entered into a dreamworld.

 

“This is not how I expected it to happen,” the knight began. “But the Fury's ways are beyond my understanding. Perhaps I have been saved. Perhaps not. It remains to be seen.” Aymeric's voice trailed into a low rumble, and Alphinaud closed his eyes despite himself, relaxing into the vibrations of his chest.

 

The knight paused for a moment. Then he nearly whispered. “It seems I have been tested. She has cast me into the abyss, to winnow the unworthy like wheat before the fire.”

 

Alphinaud opened his eyes in mild alarm. He looked up at the older man's face, which was cast in a veil of sorrow. “I had hoped you over your delirium. Regardless, you have passed the test. I saw no wings on your back, though I would have preferred you had used them.”

 

The other man smiled ruefully into the dark ceiling. “You think my heart pure, then?”

 

“As pure as any has ever been,” he answered quietly. He was surprised, then, when the hand clutching his own slowly traced up his arm, then moved to cup his jaw. He shivered, feeling slightly lost and confused at the pleasure that pooled in his stomach in reply, but made no motion to stop him.

 

The arm that held him close shifted then, as Aymeric lifted himself onto an elbow and brought their faces close. Looking straight into his eyes, he murmured his answer almost against Alphinaud's upturned lips. “You could not be more wrong.”

 

There was only a moment's more hesitation, then Aymeric struck. Pulling him close he captured the younger man's lips. He pressed cautiously at first, then moved them more firmly as Alphinaud slid his eyes shut and melted in his arms. The sensation was delicious, a kind of shock-wave that moved through him, filling him with heat and something else, something dark and wanting. He clutched at the other man's shoulder, pressing close, still shy about the skin-to-skin contact but wanting more.

 

He should have been surprised, he vaguely felt, but gears were turning in the back of his mind, informing him that yes, this was exactly what he should have expected. What did come as a shock was how much he wanted it. When he had been younger, less ambitious, he had flirted briefly with the affections of women. Those awkward kisses and gropes were nothing like this. Within moments he was gasping breathlessly into the other man's mouth, prompting a sharp tongue to steal in and trace his own. Fingers embedded themselves in his hair, then pulled teasingly at his braid. Behind heavy lids, his eyes rolled backwards as the kiss was deepened, making him moan and whimper.

 

“Oh, gods, _Alphinaud_ ,” the other man moaned against his mouth in reply. He was panting now, they both were. It wasn't enough, and when the other man attempted to disengage to catch his breath, Alphinaud pushed forward and straddled his waist, pressing him into the blanket. He was suddenly aware of a pressure in his hip-hugging shorts, but there was no time to sort out the sensations as their lips clashed again, his own tongue slipping into the other man's wanting mouth. Aymeric's hands were alive, tracing the length of his ear with narrow fingers, stroking his bare back and gripping his shoulders with urgency.

 

Gasping for air, Alphinaud ceased his assault on the other man's lips, suddenly desperate to taste skin. Tongue traced to the nape of his neck, where earlier he had frantically sought a pulse. He licked possessively at the spot, nearly purring at the strong beat of his heart, before nipping with his teeth. In response he felt a sharp buck of the hips, another guttural moan sounding in his ear.

 

“Fury preserve, this cannot be happening,” Aymeric muttered. “You must be a devil in disguise.” The thought amused him briefly, but the man unexpectedly gripped his shoulders and pushed him away to look into his eyes. “No, this is wrong,” he breathed, apparently struggling to focus. “You cannot—do you truly want this?” His gaze was filled with concern and vulnerability rather than lust, and it made him pause.

 

Sluggishly his mind attempted to catch up, looking for the light of reason and finding none. There was no way in hells he wanted to stop. Just the small sounds the knight had made were enough to drive away his sanity. Alphinaud looked down to the firm chest below him, moving with quickened breath. The rational portions of his mind warred back and forth, but distracted by the thrumming of pleasure in his blood, he could find no answer. At length, he gave the only reply that he was sure of.

 

“If my lips be your salvation, then I will damn myself if necessary. You think yourself the knave? Then for awhile, I shall be your willing accomplice.” His cheeks burned at the truth of the confession. It was only half an answer, but it would have to do. He could commit to no more.

 

The knight blinked at him uncomprehendingly, want and fear in equal measure reflecting in widened eyes. “You have warmed me quite enough for a lifetime; do not do anything you will regret.”

 

“Regret would be impossible. Pray, do not deny me this,” Alphinaud finished in a whisper. His hands slid up the length of Aymeric's forearms, stroking his wrists until they relaxed their grip on his shoulders. He gently pushed at them until strong arms were folded against the ground, offering no objection, before lowering himself against the other man's bare chest. He had only a moment to register the increased heat before the knight bucked against him, head thrown back in resistance or pleasure, revealing the pale skin of his throat.

 

Alphinaud released a rough, ragged gasp. Pressed against the other man's body as he was, he realized the true import of the movement. His own groin was now brought in contact with the other man's toned stomach, and when he moved he felt every ilm of skin through the thin cotton of his shorts, teasing his erection to further hardness and sending a tingling sensation to the tips of his toes. The friction between them was delicious, hot, with the barest sheen of sweat beginning to form. Aymeric pressed against him once again, slowly, deliberately rubbing against him, and despite the lewdness of the action he could not contain his pleasure. He closed his eyes, lost in the feeling, unable to contain a low moan that failed to respect his embarrassment.

 

A possessive growl followed, the hands he held suddenly twisting free. Aymeric's sharp eyes were on him now, all hesitation having fled, replaced with something like intent. One hand rested on his upper back, stroking with unexpected gentleness, while the other one traced his side. Slowly it drifted downward, thumb moving inward along his stomach until it reached his hip, perching above the waistband of his smallclothes. He paused there, tracing the hollow along the ridge of his pelvis with gentle motions, and meeting his eyes with calm purpose.

 

Alphinaud panicked for a bare moment before realizing that he was waiting for approval. He gripped the offending wrist and dragged it away just a fraction, moving it instead to caress his back. Aymeric nodded understanding, narrowing his eyes as if imagining what could have been. “Your move, then,” he purred, flexing his hips lightly to rub against the younger man's groin, a gentler touch this time. It still set his nerves on fire. Sure hands stroked his back, waiting patiently for him to consider.

 

He hadn't really been thinking about anything after all. He had no plan, not now, not when he had charged over the stone walls and over the brink of the Witchdrop. He would just have to continue making it up as he went. Somehow, knowing that Aymeric respected any limits he set gave him renewed courage.

 

He closed his eyes then, and decided to throw caution and propriety to the wind. He lowered his lips to the man's clavicle and kissed a tender line along the length of his shoulder, steadying his nerves while he planted his palms firmly on the thin blanket below. He was startled at the contrast to the heat and sweat between them as bitter cold bit through the fabric.

 

Then he pushed himself backwards. The hands at his back clutched him, almost frantically gripping his side as he slid backwards the space of several aching ilms until he made contact with the heat he knew full well he would find there. The knight's reaction was instantaneous, a strangled bark of surprise as he held Alphinaud close, pressing their bodies together and trapping their erections in the hot space between them. When he opened his eyes, he found that Aymeric had pressed his shoulders back against the floor, where he still panted heavily, lost to the world.

 

It was almost more than he could bear. The sudden closeness triggered a dizzying frisson, dancing through his scalp and the back of his neck, down his spine, bleeding into the fingers that clutched his back. In retrospect, this may have been farther than he'd initially intended to take their encounter. It was hard to argue the point, though, his blood practically humming with electricity and desire. He was intensely aware of the hard body trapped between his legs. He could understand now why Aymeric had wanted to touch him, the selfsame urge overtaking him all at once, wanting suddenly only to hear the other man sigh with pleasure.

 

Aside from his heavy breaths, Aymeric held absolutely still. After a moment, he lifted his head enough to look downward at the young man atop him. He seemed to be experiencing some heretofore unknown level of astonishment.

 

Alphinaud decided that he liked to see him off-balance.

 

All at once, it became imperative he press the advantage. With one knee he pressed searchingly between the other man's thighs, prompting him to widen them to make room. It was then a quick matter to shimmy backwards into the space, out of the searching grasp, and disappear beneath the blanket.

 

His seclusion didn't last long. Aymeric made a grunt of alarm, almost a squeak but lower in pitch. He threw the blanket forward over Alphinaud's shoulders, revealing his own long torso to the chill air.

 

“What—?” was all he could make out before Alphinaud's hands were on him, boldly grasping his erection through the thick cotton undergarment. The prone man threw his head back and groaned, baring his teeth as if in defiance of the unexpected pleasure. He could feel him tremble beneath his hand, as though he struggled not to move, to press against him and draw yet more.

 

“You're going to let all the heat out that way, you know.” Alphinaud's voice was calm and steady, betraying nothing of his nervous butterflies. It could have been his normal speaking voice had it not been for the sultry edge he swore he hadn't put there. There was no tremor in his hands, though his cheeks pinked noticeably in the soft light.

 

Carefully he drew his palm downward, tracing the shaft with the sensitive hollow of his palm. Aymeric returned a deep, willowy groan that seemed to last forever, pressing into his hand with even pressure. “Not fair,” he managed to say at last. He struggled feebly onto his elbows, eyes glued on the hand stroking him, lips parted carelessly. His eyes were dark with desire, lids heavy as if inhabiting a dream.

 

He was struck by an intense desire to kiss him then, but resolutely he ignored the urge. He had different prey in mind, and he somehow doubted the knight would allow him to move so far from his reach again if he returned to his arms. “Sorry,” he said, not bothering to pretend to be sincere. “I could stop if you want.” He twisted his wrist, grinding abruptly against the man below him, making him writhe and giving the lie to the threat. No response was forthcoming, save a gurgling sort of noise that could have been intended as words before they reached Aymeric's trachea and died in vain.

 

Oh yes, he did want this. It was perfectly mad and perfectly obscene and he wanted more.

 

Alphinaud released him, then, winding his hands around the fabric at the side of the knight's hips. One-by-one his fingertips ventured beneath, ever watching his companion's reaction. He moved slowly now, not for lack of want but merely to afford Aymeric the opportunity to object, though all signs suggested that he would not. The space between them felt as if it could combust at any moment, ignited by the wanton abandon the beautiful man before him displayed. Shoulders tensing and flexing in agitation, lifting his head to watch and panting through his mouth. He tipped his head back just slightly as if overwhelmed and needing distance. The pale skin of his neck lay exposed but out of his reach, emphasizing his vulnerability and thrilling Alphinaud in ways he didn't quite understand.

 

No objection forthcoming, he swallowed his remaining nervousness and slid the garment over toned hips, sliding his hands downward to caress his arse reverently. Aymeric lifted his hips to allow the material to pass, face and chest flushed red but panting wetly with need. With a hiss and a sharp intake of breath, the swollen erection sprang free, redder than the blush on his cheeks and glistening at the circumcised tip.

 

Alphinaud had anticipated leaning backwards and liberating the man completely of his final piece of clothing, but it became quite clear that he would be too distracted for such a complex task. Everything fled his mind at once, leaving him only with the reality before him. He abandoned the white fabric pooled below the sensual curve of the man's rear, tracing his palms around muscular legs that bent and flexed to grip his sides, steadying them both. He drew one finger forward, cautiously stroking up the length of the prominent cock. It twitched suddenly, causing him to catch it in the palm of his hand, drawing a high-pitched moan from the man below him. He whimpered pleadingly as Alphinaud grasped him, taking in the contrast of the silken skin to the searing heat and hardness that must have been almost painful. Was painful, if the sounds Aymeric made were any indication. He unconsciously keened with want, no longer understanding why he had rejected the hands that sought to stroke him.

 

It was all too much, and it was not nearly enough. No thoughts interfered as he dropped his head and darted out his tongue, tasting the glittering fluid oozing from the tip and taking in the scent of sweat and arousal. It was viscous and lightly salty, slick and inviting him to things he could not even name.

 

He would not resist. Tongue flat and wet with both their fluids, he licked upwards over the head, catching the cock between his lips and sucking experimentally while he steadied it with his hand. Immediately Aymeric's whole body convulsed, thrusting minutely into his mouth and hands despite what must have been a monumental effort of self-governance. Alphinaud relaxed his jaw, allowing himself to sink slowly downward as he lapped at the vertical ridge traveling the length of the shaft.

 

“Oh Fury,” Aymeric moaned, voice no longer restrained but painted with passion. “Oh! Oh fuck, _yes_ , gods be _praised_.” Obscenities mixed with breathy prayers tumbled from his lips, trailing into an incoherent jumble of deep, needy sounds. The blasphemy was glorious, an exquisite shattering of inhibition, reminding Alphinaud of the depth of his transgressions.

 

He had closed his eyes at some point to focus on the sensations, surreal and new and wholly unexpected. He was startled when a hand roughly wound itself into his hair, calloused thumb brushing along his ear. He felt suddenly anchored. The grip was strong but measured, making no effort to hurry or force him. The knight's legs flexed around his sides, and he had the sudden, unbidden epiphany that Aymeric was making love to him.

 

A cascade of emotion tumbled through him, catching at his throat and making him hum brokenly around the man's cock. He let them wash through him and away, focusing manically on the task before him. When it was buried as deep as he felt comfortable, he pulled back up at a fractionally quicker pace, bringing his hand up with it and taking advantage of the saliva-slick surface. Harsh, high-pitched gasps entreated him to hurry. He swirled his tongue around the head when he reached it again, making the man tremble. Tremble for him. Pleasure was building in his own body, unattended and unasked for.

 

He turned his head a fraction and plunged downward suddenly, twisting his hand in a practiced motion. Hips jerked upward again to meet him, but his steadying hand on the knight's thigh kept him securely anchored. He drew away slowly again, movements becoming less torturous as his patience thinned. He was torn between wanting to draw the experience out as long as he could, and wishing to end it now, tearing screams from the other man's throat. Gradually he increased the pace, breathing evenly through his nose when he could, reveling in the fingers that alternately stroked and seized his hair.

 

Aymeric was not making patience an easy thing. He would have guessed that he would be a quiet lover, but he seemed to moan or gasp greedily at every movement he made. It was enough to drive him mad. He drew backwards on the next upstroke, lips leaving him completely but teasing the swollen tip with his tongue in the cool air. His eyes traveled the length of the other man's body as he caught his breath, only to have it leave him altogether. Aymeric had leaned forward farther than looked strictly comfortable, propped up by one arm trailing behind, the other stretched forward to caress him. Every muscle in his torso seemed tense and lightly coated with sweat. In contrast his head hung forward limply, mouth open and panting obscenely. Aristocratic brows knitted together in concentration and eyes closed serenely beneath dark curls that stuck to his skin. The sight of the noble knight so thoroughly undone went straight to his cock, causing him to suck in a sudden breath of chill air and making him wonder if there was anything he could truly deny him.

 

There wasn't. The knight's narrow eyes opened suddenly, fixing him with a stare of raw lust and something powerful, dominating. Quickly he bared his teeth and growled, a short angry rumble, quietly enough that he might not have heard if the cave had not been so silent and still.

 

Alphinaud felt his patience shatter. The urge to return the challenge was quickly overridden by lust and the desire to posses the man, make him his own. Immediately his mouth was on him again, licking and sucking with abandon and taking him as deep as he could. The restraining hand on the man's hip loosened, pulled instead, encouraging Aymeric to make rough, shallow thrusts into his mouth and hand. All sense left him and for several glorious minutes they lost themselves completely to pleasure, writhing and moaning against each other until they could take no more.

 

Then Aymeric shouted, a ragged bark broken in half like a branch in a storm. The knight was convulsing, spasming beneath his hands before he felt the hot, thick fluid at the back of his throat. He swallowed hurriedly, holding him as he twitched, startled and enraptured by the eroticism of the moment. Finally a deep moan echoed through the knight, sending another series of sparks down Alphinaud's neck and spine, and he answered with one of his own, no longer master of his own body. The hand in his hair twitched, loosening rather than pulling as he'd expected, and instead moved to stroke firmly along the length of his ear, making his whole head tingle. A blinding sort of shock overtook him then, unexpected and not quite welcome but sweet as candy all the same.

 

It was some moments before he could find significance in anything at all. He laid his head down upon the smooth expanse of the knight's stomach, loving the whisper of the long fingers that gently played along his scalp. His heart gradually slowed, relaxed. At length he looked up to see the gentle expression on Aymeric's face, simultaneously overwhelmed and full of affection. With effort he pushed himself into movement, climbing the short distance to lay bonelessly in the taller man's embrace.

 

They lay for a time in silence, the knight drawing the blanket back around their shoulders and holding him securely. Aymeric seized him in a lingering kiss, unashamedly tasting every corner of his mouth, lazy, languid, tender.

 

“Would you like me to return the favour?” the other man asked at length, nuzzling his neck with his nose and lips and stroking his side with small, soothing motions.

 

“No, that won't be necessary.” Alphinaud blushed with the admission. He was glad that the boundary he'd set earlier was still in place, given the uncomfortable stickiness of his shorts. He was not accustomed to feeling embarrassment, but it was becoming disturbingly common in Aymeric's presence.

 

The response was a low moan of approval mixed with disappointment, a beautiful, agonizing sound. “More's the pity.” The breathy voice in his ear spoke volumes, making it clear that it was a standing offer should he change his mind. His cooling blood raced momentarily, before he could quell the temptation. But Alphinaud remained silent, wishing then only that he could sleep for an entire turn of the sun in the comfort of Aymeric's arms. He could afford to relax for a few minutes at least. They were in no danger of freezing to death, not now and not ever.


	6. The Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content and a fair helping of religious guilt.

He had sworn it would only be a moment, but Alphinaud was startled suddenly from slumber by a hand stroking his back. His whole body twitched, disoriented and a little afraid. Strong arms pulled him tightly against warm skin until he returned fully to his senses. They filled with the scent of sweat, leather, and oiled metal. Ah yes. He remembered now. He had interrupted Ser Aymeric in the process of dying, which sensibly had led to the commission of carnal acts which he had previously only heard described by those who were certain he would not overhear. Naturally he was now lying, nearly naked, in the arms of the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, defender of the faith and sworn servant of the Archbishop. It made as much sense as anything else had of late, especially when Aymeric was present.

 

What he said aloud was, “how long did I sleep?” He would have been reluctant to disturb the silence, but in truth it had been his responsibility to keep the other man awake until he could see a healer. He had to admit he was doing a poor job.

 

“A few minutes, a quarter-bell at most.” The voice was soft enough to be audible mostly as a rumble in the broad chest he had nestled against while he slept. Long fingers were once again stroking his scalp, and Alphinaud was finding it extremely difficult to remain agitated.

 

This time he caught himself before the comfort bore him away. He pried away the fingers and sat up, surprised at the mild dizziness the action generated more than the disappointed sigh from his companion. The man was looking at him wistfully, not a little sadly, and he found he could not bear the sight. He rolled out from beneath the rough blanket and grabbed at his too-light clothing, infinitely relieved that it had dried.

 

The chill air brought him to full wakefulness instantly. “I thought your grand plan was to steal some rest whilst I was occupied,” he said to distract himself while he dressed. He tossed the black trousers and tabard towards the knight with a flick of his ankle while he fumbled with the buttons on his tunic.

 

“Ah, I had forgotten. It seems that something quite distracted me.” The voice didn't affect him quite as much now that he had gained some distance, but its softness bleeding through his playful words still cut him to the quick. Something in his chest hurt in ways he had never felt before.

 

He did not regret it. Would not. But that didn't mean he knew what to do now.

 

Oh yes. Survive.

 

The poor chocobo. He knelt at the bird's side to check its condition. Mercifully it was merely sleeping, raising its head to whistle softly when he stroked its neck. Alphinaud didn't consider himself terribly good with animals that he had not personally summoned, but he felt guilty enough to wrap Aymeric's heavy cloak around it, tucking the edges of the fabric around its feet. The effect was quite silly, the large electrum pauldrons adorning is shoulders in mimicry of the cloak's owner. It took quick action to stifle what was most definitely not an impending chuckle, hand pressed to his lips and snorting ungracefully.

 

“Yes, quite fetching,” Aymeric agreed with only a hint of annoyance. “It will take only a moon to be rid of the smell.” More importantly, the chocobo seemed to appreciate it, puffing out its feathers and making itself quite at home in the expensive blue fabric.

 

Alphinaud risked a look at the knight, still tucked beneath the blanket like a heedless child. Aymeric was watching him cautiously, a hint of vulnerability still showing through the windows of his soul. Rather than moving to dress, he had bundled his tabard beneath his head as a pillow and rolled onto his side. The blanket hugged his lithe frame shamelessly, and would have left little to the imagination, save that Alphinaud had memory to guide him instead. He rolled his eyes in irritation, but truly it was more at his own body's reaction to his wandering thoughts than at the knight's indolence.

 

He found the canteen and took a few sips of the crisp water, stale from the long confinement in its metal walls but tasting sweet as ambrosia. Finally he handed it over to his companion. “I'm going to see if the storm has run its course. Swear to me that you will stay awake.” It was not a request.

 

Aymeric nodded, for once, without comment.

 

The air beyond the mouth of the cave was deadly still, silent like the legends told of the eye of a hurricane. So near to the nesting ground of the terrible Garuda, the thought made him mutter an oath of protection as he cautiously picked his way up the trail to the top. The winds did not seem to blow as fiercely as before, making visibility better, but he was as yet unsure if Aymeric would be up to the task of moving in the icy wind. He wound his way back down the slope through the fresh snow with great care, stopping to search for the sword that had guided him to his quarry. It took only a few minutes of kicking snowdrifts and skidding on rime-flaked rocks before he located it, and proudly he bore it back.

 

The blue sword was nearly as long as he was tall, but it seemed to be made of some sort of composite or ceramic, being extraordinarily light and keen of edge. It was still far too heavy for one of his strength and stature to wield effectively. But in the hands of one with a strong arm and a wide reach, the length of the blade would have meant that the tip of the sword would slice at a much greater speed relative to the swing. It must have been capable of cutting the toughest hides and the thickest bones, and its surprising lightness would have made it easier to stop and redirect, making it unexpectedly nimble and completely deadly to any who underestimated it, even at range. It was perfect for a man of Aymeric's coeurl-like grace. He suspected the sight would fair take his breath away.

 

On flat ground again, he lifted the blade so that the flat of it balanced on his shoulder and trailed behind his back, no longer worried that an errant step would mean his head. An odd, mournfully beautiful sound seemed to emanate from the cave, shadows ghosting about in the dim fire in impish mockery and seeming every bit the mouth leading into the seven hells. Drawing closer he resolved the sound as Aymeric's voice, softly humming a hymn that echoed and distorted through the silence, as if making comment on their good intentions.

 

He stopped before the threshold of damnation for a few moments, listening. Aymeric was quite capable of carrying a tune, it seemed, the haunting baritone rumble moving around and filling the silence in such a way as to make it seem even more barren, like the grandness of a cathedral, constructed of empty space and echoes. When he drew closer, he found the knight reclining conformally against the cave wall, wearing much of his clothing and wrapped with one of the blankets. Dark hair clung about his face in a disheveled mess, making him seem wreathed in shadow, otherworldly. His eyes were closed in serene contemplation, and Alphinaud wondered if the holy knight was performing an act of devotion, or merely filling the time.

 

At length the hymn was ended, and Aymeric opened his eyes to behold the silhouette of the younger man with the great sword flung casually over a shoulder, watching him with hawkish eyes. The knight's breath caught visibly in his chest, but he gave no other outward sign of his emotions, returning the gaze with the steely calm Alphinaud had come to respect at the negotiating table. That, too, heated his blood.

 

Alphinaud moved first, lowering the great blade and resting it in both hands to present it respectfully to its owner. The formality of the action was comfortingly rigid, devoid of ambiguities and hidden meanings. “The storm is near spent, but it would not hurt to tarry a while longer. How fare you?”

 

“I have been worse. Some dizziness and headache when I move quickly, but I should manage with some assistance.” He took the blade with a nod of thanks and set it near to hand, then offered Alphinaud the second blanket. The younger Elezen took the offering, trading him half their food ration, and settled himself against the wall across the dim flames, beside the chocobo, to nibble his own.

 

It wasn't until he had sat down that he realized he had done so to put distance between them, his heart leaping briefly into his throat at the thought. Unbidden, the bird shifted to lay its head in his lap. Idly he stroked the feathers atop its head, struggling to form his disquiet into words as he chewed. Symbols and metaphors clashed in his head, no longer lighting the way between truth and fiction, making him wonder if there were truly any difference between the sacred and the profane.

 

The knight watched his disquiet sadly, making no comment. Instead they made work of their meal, trading the canteen back and forth periodically, their awkward silence its own kind of mutual understanding. Their unspoken words lay discarded in a messy heap between them, which they both made effort to ignore.

 

Finally Alphinaud broke their truce. “What makes you believe yourself damned?” He addressed the empty air, as if the question had been intended for anyone who happened by. It was not the heart of the matter, but he hoped it would lead him there, as a doorway in a stone cellar.

 

Aymeric's eyes sparkled briefly with grim amusement. “I forget sometimes how it is with unbelievers. Desire for one of the same sex is considered a great affront to the Twelve... to all creation, in fact. It is not unheard-of for such abominations to fly silent for some time, but... well, that only lasts as long as one has no enemies who can capitalize on the information.” He paused briefly, a short silence underlining his words.

 

There was no doubt that Aymeric had many such enemies, given his low birth and high political office. “A swift trial and swifter drop lies in store for those who act without discretion,” the knight finished darkly.

 

Alphinaud suspected as much, but it helped to hear it spoken aloud, no longer couched in riddle. Always it puzzled him to be called an unbeliever, worshiping as they did the same pantheon, shunning (and killing) the same false gods. But there were still grave cultural differences, and he ignored them at his—and Aymeric's—peril. His appetite quite gone from him, he fed the other half of his bar of grain to the chocobo, which cooed in approval and misplaced affection.

 

“Then I have truly damned you with my lips,” he answered distractedly, fingers at his mouth, no true remorse save for some abstract, eighth-day-lessons sort of guilt. It was the sort that feared the switch, not the sin. Perhaps he was an unbeliever after all, when it came to that sort of justice.

 

“No, that I have brought fairly upon myself. I was damned many years ago, by my thoughts rather than deeds.” Only a faint blush marred the knight's cheeks at the admission. He met Alphinaud's gaze side-long, the deep blue gem at his ear catching the firelight suddenly, briefly highlighting once again the openness he had displayed not a bell before.

 

And then the moment was over, refracted away in a facet of the blue prism. “And what of you, Leveilleur,” the knight asked with sudden interest, demeanor shifting entirely. He lifted a knee to drape an arm over artfully, clothed now in his long, silver-wrapped fingerless gloves and wearing the rude blanket as a regal cape. The same aggressive spark was in his gaze, intelligence like a freshly honed blade, eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing. “Are you damned by your thoughts, or mine?”

 

The question had been phrased threateningly and he recognized the move for what it was, a deliberate goad. Had Alphinaud been closer, he realized, he would have been unable to answer, once-again tempted to kiss the man to silence his own disquiet, and possibly derailing the conversation for good. He pressed his bare fingers to his lips again, unconsciously seeking to reassure himself, and perhaps reliving the ghostly memory of a previous touch.

 

Aymeric, too, needed reassurance, or he would not have struck so boldly. He needed an answer, of any kind. Alphinaud could sense the threads of his inquiry beginning to converge. He bowed his head in contemplation, hugging his stocking-covered knees to his torso beneath the thin sheet.

 

“I am no foolish maid, and neither are you,” he produced at length, allowing frustration to get the better of him. “As ever it is mine own will that damns me, and your goddess will have no part in it.” The knight's eyes flashed dangerously at the sacrilegious tone, perhaps sensing multiple words that the youth had struggled to omit. But now Alphinaud did rise to sit beside the other man, pulling him down by the blanket around his shoulders, causing him to growl darkly into a possessive kiss.

 

It had sounded like an answer to a direct question, but in truth, he knew, Aymeric had asked him a many-layered riddle. He would take his time teasing it apart, and he would give his final answer only when he was ready.

 

He knew it had been a mistake, further tempting the older man, but the factor he kept forgetting was his own desire, always lurking behind a facade that seemed to fool even him. So when Aymeric had returned the kiss with grim enthusiasm, he had clambered astride the man's knees to compound the error. His hands wandered the man's chest freely, fascinated by the ornate fabric and the firm muscles sliding beneath it, feeling the strong rise and fall of his chest as his breath quickened.

 

The knight's hands, in turn, were fascinated with his bare skin, highlighting the inadequacy of Alphinaud's winter wardrobe. Fingers ghosted to his sides to stroke his waist with a feather-soft touch, before sliding over the fabric at his hips to grip his outer thighs. Alphinaud gasped against his lips as a knee was lifted to rub against his rear, pushing him forward to lean against the knight's chest and fall helplessly into an open-mouthed kiss.

 

He couldn't seem to decide if the knight was shy or shameless. Perhaps the most that could be said was that he knew what he wanted, and that right now it was the creamy flesh beneath his stockings, and a tongueless kiss that was somehow both chaste and scalding at the same time. Fingers worked their way below the white fabric, searching and grasping, while the black-clad palms slid smoothly over his bare thigh. The knee lifting between his legs continued to apply steady pressure, but when he attempted to slide downward and press their bodies together, he found Aymeric's hands would not allow him, suddenly flexing and holding him in a firm grip. All the while their lips moved together, gentle touches with occasional urgency but tempered need, shallow gasps and shared breath the totality of their transgression.

 

Finally he felt the tip of Aymeric's tongue run along the bottom of his lip, prompting Alphinaud to meet it with his own with a small whimper. But he was frustrated to find that the knight would neither allow incursion nor be tempted into Alphinaud's mouth. After several minutes of stalemate and amused rumbles as the knight's tongue retreated from him, he drew back and fixed him with a dark glare from beneath the white puff of his bangs. He panted slightly through parted lips, pointedly forbidding his mind from dwelling on the reasons for his urgency, or the knight's restraint.

 

The larger man regarded him coolly, a similar dark lust evident in his posture, but a touch of amusement at his lips. Ice blue eyes wandered over him predatorily, and then large hands squeezed his thighs sharply enough to bruise, knee grinding upwards into the cleft of his arse and dragging the fabric of his shorts over all his sensitive areas. Suddenly his pants were entirely too tight, making him gasp and grit his teeth in annoyance, but the only response Aymeric would give was the tiniest narrowing of his eyes. Once again he was being goaded, and this time Alphinaud rose fully to the bait. He seized the other man by his hair, dimly registering the softness of the short strands and the cold residue of sweat as he crashed their lips together. He would not be denied. His tongue darted forward to claim the warm mouth as his, and rather than blocking his ingress or pulling away, he was gratified by a rumbled, welcoming groan.

 

It was easy to lose himself like that, so willingly he did. Aymeric refused to release his hips, as if afraid further contact would scald him, but he gave willingly of his tongue and soon they were both panting, breathlessly, whispered sighs a marked contrast to their earlier ardor. Eventually the hands at his hips shifted, pulling him close to his chest and wrapping around his back, and Alphinaud could not find it in him to press the advantage, merely relaxing into the warmth of the embrace and burying his head against the other man's chest.

 

They lay still for several minutes, blocking out the world.

 

It could not last. They both knew it.

 

Words finally intruded, opening the door of reality and letting the light shine in. “Ever shall this be how I remember,” whispered the knight, so quietly it didn't even reverberate in his chest, a mere breath against his ear.

 

He had known the words were coming, but pain gripped Alphinaud then, sweet and all-encompassing as the kiss had been. He held the other man tightly for a long moment, and then moved to struggle to his feet, retrieving his discarded blanket and pulling it tight around his shoulders. It did not protect him from the cold of reason, and he shivered involuntarily.

 

“Will it be difficult to don your armor? It would not do to return without it...” his words did not sound like his own, and his movements were disconnected, robotic, kneeling to examine the chocobo but seeing nothing, gaze blank.

 

“I will manage.” The knight's voice was soft, but carried still his stoic strength. Solid reassurance, not false cheer. Alphinaud closed his eyes and leaned on the other man's courage for a moment, blocking out the sounds of movement behind him and the pain clawing at his gut. It was enough, somehow.

 

The chocobo whistled to him, startling him from his melancholy and prompting his hands to actions long-delayed. He stripped away the cloak, checking the straps on the saddle and cavalry barding and finding nothing obviously amiss. He bid the bird to stand with him and it followed, stretching its neck gloriously and towering nearly half his height over him, flapping its wings and waggling its tail in satisfaction. He took it as a sign that it would bear the other man safely.

 

When he turned around again, he was blindsided by Ser Aymeric's sad smile. He had finished dressing in his armor and cloak, and leaned on one knee to watch him, making no effort to hide either his affection or his broken heart.

 

Alphinaud wished, not for the first time, that there was something either of them could say to make it better. But the best he could do was smile back, a little wan and a little broken, but without regret.

 

Then he turned away, blush coloring his cheeks not from embarrassment, but from an excess of emotions that he had been trying to suppress. He made his way to the mouth of the cave, and confirmed that the storm would allow them passage. All was quiet, as if waiting for the lovers to make a decision. It was now or never.

 

He returned to Aymeric's side and helped him to stand, allowing the taller man to lean against him and grip his shoulders as vertigo overtook him. If he leaned too long, neither commented upon it. Then with difficulty, the knight mounted the chocobo, sagging with a pained sort of relief once the task was completed. Alphinaud handed him the great sword, then packed away the flint and the canteen, and together they walked out of the cave, each wrapped in a blanket against the coming Coerthan winds.

 

Alphinaud glanced back one more time into the mouth of their sanctuary. Neither had remarked upon it, but either by agreement or neglect, they had left the fire burning.


	7. The Adventurer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content.

The winds had seemed to hold their breath as the two Elezen picked their way up the cliffs of the Witchdrop. Cresting the rise that signaled their emergence from hell, it dropped all pretense and ripped the warmth from Alphinaud's body like a demon claiming his soul. The blanket flapped around his small frame uselessly, allowing the winds to blow straight through him and keeping out only a modicum of the ice and snow.

 

Thankfully, visibility had much improved, and though cold, the short walk back to camp was not difficult. They made their way slowly, the chocobo keeping pace by his side, his fingers originally wound into the feathers above its shoulder but soon consumed by the small warmth provided by Aymeric's larger hand. He glanced up at the knight occasionally through hooded goggles, buoyed by his perseverance and smiles so thin and small they could ever only be meant for him.

 

They were in sight of the gate in minutes, though it felt like bells. Through the flurry Alphinaud could make out dark shapes moving along the wall behind the occasional spark of aether. If the gate were manned, there would be no difficulty gaining entrance.

 

The chocobo stopped abruptly, squealing in displeasure at being reigned in so near to home. When he looked up, it was just in time to see Aymeric leaning down from his perch atop the large bird, wincing only slightly in pain as he grasped Alphinaud's chin.

 

“They'll see--” was all Alphinaud managed before the knight stole a kiss. It was short but insistent, thumb stroking his cheek softly as he drew away again, the moment gone forever.

 

“Don't care,” the knight replied, yelling against the storm, and he spurred the chocobo onward again, towards warmth and security and damnable propriety and sense.

 

It did not take long after for voices on the wall to raise with alarm, then cheers. Their indiscretion had remained unnoticed, it seemed. The portcullis slid open before they had fully reached it, several soldiers being the first to rush through and greet them. One took the reins of the chocobo, a look of pure awe as he regarded the three of them, emerging sound and whole from death as if they had been resurrected by the goddess and wreathed in halos.

 

“See that it is treated well. This bird is a hero,” he said, deflecting any questions but meaning the sentiment sincerely. The soldier gave a lopsided grin in response, patting its head in agreement as he made to lead it away. Alphinaud's hand slipped from the chocobo's neck as it drew away from him, carelessly brushing against Aymeric's leg, and he steeled his will against the other man's parting glance. An observer would have made out no emotion in either of their gazes, but they knew each other well enough now to see otherwise, a certain tightness around Alphinaud's eyes that seemed too old for his few years, a softness of gaze and a slightly upturned lip from Aymeric. In a moment even that glance was gone, a jubilant crowd gathering around the knight to help him from the bird's back and bear him to the healers.

 

“Al... Alphinaud?” A small voice at his feet tore him from the silent goodbye, the shift in attention raw like an open wound. Tataru stood there looking for all the world like a lost child finally returned home, tears shining in the corner of her expressive lavender eyes. She clutched a familiar bundle wrapped in paper as if it were a precious toy. “I thought for certain this time... you were...”

 

He smiled at her then, always glad of her support, truly the last at his side when all else had been lost. “It's fine now. I'm fine. Just a little cold, and very tired.” Now that they had entered the courtyard, the storm had simply faded away, the only remnants the chill emptiness inside him.

 

Tataru frowned, and quickly unbundled the package and threw its contents over his head. He barely had time to see her eyes narrow with anger and her little foot stomp petulantly before his vision was blocked by fur. “You wouldn't be so cold if you had worn your coat! Honestly, are you trying to get yourself killed on purpose? We all thought you were dead! If you ever make me worry like that again, I shall... I shall...” her short burst of anger wore itself down by the time he had pushed off his hood and shrugged on the coat, dropping the blanket carelessly on the stone floor of the courtyard.

 

“I shall never forgive either of us,” she finished, tears finally flowing freely, small fists attempting to rub them away before they could escape down her cheeks, and failing. Not for the first time Alphinaud was tempted to grab her up in his arms, but checked the urge, respect for the grown woman asserting itself over his misdirected instincts.

 

Instead, he knelt, allowing her to come to him, and he hugged her gratefully when she threw her arms around his neck. “I am truly sorry for making you worry. I acted the fool,” he murmured sincerely. But he could not bring himself to regret doing it, nor could he promise not to do so again.

 

After a moment she reigned in her tears and allowed him to stand, beckoning him quickly to his room, proceeding to business and practicality as was her custom. She was all chatter now, nervous and fidgety, reporting to him the goings-on about the camp in the previous bells, theories as to the nature of the storm, the chaos in the kitchens, grief at the loss and joy at the recovery of the beloved Lord Commander. Once she'd seen him to his room with a change of clothes at the ready, she disappeared to fetch some soup, and personally made certain that he ate a full bowl of it once she returned even though he'd been halfway to sleep and full of complaints.

 

The diminutive woman stoked the fire while he ate, passing him curious glances but saying nothing, as if afraid to distract his mouth from its important task. The soup was hearty and simple, red meat and barley and a hint of tomato in the brown onion broth. When he'd finished he was glad she had made him eat it, the chill having been chased from his core and lingering only in his extremities. He knew that soon enough he would find the heat overbearing, and he was glad of it.

 

She took the bowl from him, setting it aside and tucking the blanket over him like a worried hen smothering her chicks. A knock sounded at the door and Lord Haurchefant let himself quietly in, bowing his head apologetically over the intrusion. He made his way to the youth's bedside and pulled up a chair to examine him fretfully over folded hands, and Alphinaud had to fight Tataru's ministrations to sit up and acknowledge him respectfully.

 

“You were supposed to be laying low,” the lord said after a moment's consideration, “hiding from the powers that seek your head on a pike. And now it seems you have made quite the impression amongst the men, bringing their Commander back from death like an angel from the heavens. There are stories, already.” Sky blue eyes glinted intensely, not with annoyance but respect and gratitude. “Of course, I have bid the men drink to the health of the _passing adventurer_ who saved him. But as many already know the look of you from around the camp, we cannot expect to quell all the rumors.”

 

“I must once again thank you, Lord Haurchefant. Your quick thinking and loyalty to your friends is unparalleled. I am once again in your debt.” Alphinaud bowed his head slightly, feeling truly guilty at the uproar he had caused, and not a little embarrassed.

 

“Don't be silly,” the lord answered breezily, “it is we who are eternally in your debt, myself especially. You cannot imagine the blow such a loss would have struck against our entire nation. You have foiled the plans of this Geomancer and saved a good man from death, there is no cause for mourning. In fact, I imagine the Holy See will hear of it. I can hear it now, shock ringing through the Vault like the cathedral's bell. The defenders of the Steps of Faith have once again defied the odds, this time risking life and limb on a selfless errand of mercy, to snatch a single good man from the heretic's noose!” The stormy-haired man gestured expansively, voice rising a fraction, though mercifully still at a volume appropriate for the small room. Alphinaud coughed quietly, hoping to refocus his attention.

 

It worked, allowing him to breathe a small sigh of relief as the glint of madness disappeared from the other man's eyes. “Are you quite well, Alphinaud? We should fetch you a healer.”

 

“No, thank you, I am quite well. Tataru has soothed my chill. I only want for rest.” Dearly did he wish for his two friends to leave, so he could sleep without worry and then be alone with his turbulent thoughts. He felt like he had hidden a bomb in a jar and merely hoped the explosion would wait until everyone had looked away.

 

“Ah,” he said, indicating understanding where there clearly was none. “How was it, exactly, that you managed it? The men that saw you said you hadn't even a proper coat. You could forgive their flights of fancy and speculation as to how you returned alive, let alone completely unharmed.”

 

Alphinaud collapsed backwards into his pillow then, burying his face in his hands while he tried to rephrase the truth into a convincing lie. With effort, he managed through the distractions of his wicked memories. “Basic survival techniques,” he intoned tiredly. “Seek shelter, light a fire, keep dry. I've spent enough time around adventurers to know this much. I was fortunate to find him already sheltered in a cave, and the chocobo had some basic supplies.” On instinct he omitted the detail about the Witchdrop, remembering the disturbing implications Aymeric had drawn from his fall. He could not be sure other Ishgardians would not also conjure its symbolism into reality, proof of heresy in the mere accident.

 

“Blind luck,” offered Lord Haurchefant, his expression none-too-pleased. “Is this how your misadventures always go? If you put those under your command in such danger with as much forethought,” he trailed off into a growl, eyes narrowed dangerously. He left the threat unphrased, nebulous, as though his loyalty was too strong to truly ponder it.

 

“No,” answered Alphinaud, more certain than he felt. A tiny suspicion that he had been harboring for some time clicked in his mind, and he took a chance on it. “No, what I did was stupid and impulsive and borne of desperation. I would not throw away the life of another on such folly. Had I thought for but a moment, I would not have done so myself.” His body was rigid with tension, the full truth so close to the surface that he wildly imagined it was visible, scrawled across his skin.

 

It was a risky gambit, but it appeared to have worked. Slowly the lord's bearing relaxed, anger turning to curiosity. He examined him for several long moments, then closed his eyes sympathetically. “Of course. We all know what it is to want to risk everything for a friend,” he said softly, speculatively. “Forgive me for questioning you so harshly. The servants will attend to anything you desire, as ever.” Haurchefant stood to regard him, kindness and appreciation once again beaming down at him. “Rest well, friend. You have earned it, and we shall ever be in your debt. Just be more careful, there are many who would be sad to lose you, myself included.”

 

They watched him leave, neither hiding their relief when the door closed soundly. Tataru was the first to break the silence, cradling her head in one hand and holding her elbow with the other and staring at the door. “I feel I have missed something... important.”

 

Alphinaud looked at her a little strangely, knowing he could trust her but unable to break the man's confidence. “Some secrets are not mine to tell.”

 

The lalafel was puzzled at first, apparently thinking over Haurchefant's words. “Oh!” she suddenly clapped her hands over her mouth to contain the outburst. “You don't suppose he fancies...”

 

“Not a word of that to anyone, ever,” he admonished guiltily, sinking back into the pillow. Tataru descended into a fit of giggles, reading the warning as confirmation. He supposed it wasn't really his fault if the lord was so obvious in his affection for their adventurer friend, but he knew now the consequences of such things, and did not take the subject lightly. “I mean it. And Tataru?”

 

“Yes, Alphinaud?” With difficulty she composed herself, drawing an 'x' over her heart to indicate the secret was safe.

 

“Please, let me sleep.”

 

“Of course,” she mumbled with affection, the smile still audible in her voice as she straightened his blankets one more time, then let herself out. He never heard the door thud closed, already claimed by lethe's embrace.

 

 

 

 

Dreams plagued Alphinaud, disturbing and enticing him in turn until he washed up on the shore of wakefulness, sweaty and hard, heart pounding at unknown figments. He full expected to have slept for over a day, but the chronoscope on the nightstand proclaimed the time to be shortly before dawn. Still at least twelve hours of slumber, but he did not feel as rested as he hoped. If anything, the extra time had given his mind license to wander and torture him.

 

It wasn't that strange, actually. A lot had happened the previous day, the cycle of life and death spinning before his eyes like a drunken compass needle. He supposed he had lost his virginity in a way, though he was no longer certain there was a clear line between the two states, one single act that signaled the transition to manhood. He only knew that his desire had been awakened, in the most exquisite and unexpected way, and he could no longer go through life as if sex were an inconvenience. Of course, sex wasn't what he wanted.

 

It was Aymeric.

 

With effort, he untangled himself from the serpentine sheets, the friction of their movement its own enticement, adding to his memories and elaborating upon them. He kicked aside a sheet wet with sweat, making himself comfortable in the remaining layers and enjoying the relative coolness of the room, dim embers slumbering still in the hearth.

 

His blood was calling him, senseless to aught but desire. He did not resist long. Eyes closed peacefully as if he could slip back into Aymeric's arms, he allowed his hand to wander. It caressed his throat, traced down his chest over his loose shirt. When it reached his stomach it tickled against bare skin, the shirt being too short to reach his waist and having ridden up as he moved. He paused there, enjoying the simple warmth of his palm pressed flat against his skin, then wandered up under his shirt, searching, finding, breathing. He imagined the knight caressing him with such gentle touches, pressing against him from behind with a firm arm snaked around his waist to remind him that he could not escape. Not unless he wanted to, and that was quite impossible.

 

His hand, now Aymeric's, wandered back down his torso to his sleeping pants, fingers dipping just below the line of the drawstring and tracing his pelvic bone as they had done the day before. The motion was more teasing now, less cautious, and it was only a moment before he leaned his head back into the pillow and whispered a plaintive “yes,” into the morning air. He imagined he heard a warm growl of excitement in his ear, vibrating down his shoulders and heating his skin.

 

The reaction was not immediate. The fingers twitched lightly, then danced beneath his smallclothes, stroking his side and soothing his palm all the way to the junction of his leg, dragging against the sensitive hair but missing his needy cock entirely. Slowly then he moved back up, fingers teasing, before swiping sideways and caressing his lower stomach, tops of his fingers just grazing his erection. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, resisting the temptation to press for more, resisting, then giving in.

 

With both hands he worried the pants and shorts down his hips, the friction too rough for him, merely promising other things. He kicked them away quickly, the knight chuckling in his mind, a dark sensual sound that he wondered if only he knew. His hands embraced his thighs, sliding freely over them in memory of the touches he had received before they left the cave for good. They were rougher now, squeezing and holding him, reaching back and pinching his cheeks. He longed to feel the other man below him, cock pressing against his rear, a few layers of fabric separating them or none at all.

 

Aymeric's arm returned to his waist, replacing his territorial claim. The other swept fingers over his thigh in an arc towards his erection. Stilling, just for a moment before making contact, then drawing the flat of his palm lightly against the length of it. He reversed the motion, pressing harder, not gripping but stroking, and Alphinaud dug the nails of his other hand into his hip in longing. If either hand had truly belonged to the knight, the motion might have drawn blood.

 

Searching hand lifted to his mouth, brushing against his lips and drawing a sigh from them. He had intended to move on quickly, but on impulse he pressed against the heel of his thumb, caressing it with a tender kiss. His tongue darted out to wrap around middle and index fingers, drawing them into his mouth and reminding him of other things, sensations and touches rather than images. His skin tasted dusty and bitter, but it satisfied a strange hunger in him, to touch, taste, feel.

 

He quickly amended his plan. The unoccupied hand that had draped across his waist was brought to his mouth, and his tongue found it too, flat and laden with saliva. He licked across his palm several times, then lowered it to grasp his softening erection, encasing it with slick heat. The temperature between his sheets spiked suddenly, and his lips quickly found his wet fingers again, sucking them deep into his mouth and humming contentedly.

 

Slowly he twisted the hand wrapped around his shaft, spreading the thin barrier of spit to coat his fingers, then he began to stroke himself with agonizing gentleness. He remembered the look in Aymeric's eyes when he had abandoned his resistance. There was no hesitation, no mad lust, just a calm certainty. The knight had wanted before anything else to touch him, and in his mind he gave the man what he wanted, leaning back against him and pressing their bodies together, thrusting forward into his hand with a smooth motion of his hips, then grinding backwards against the man's cock and reveling in the snarls and growls he was certain he would hear.

 

He could not stand it for long. His hand moved faster, focused now on stroking up and down, a firm grip replacing the subtle twisting motions, fingers knowing from long practice just where to strike. Knees bent to make space in his blanket sanctuary, allowing him leverage to thrust against his hand, short, shallow strokes. He bit down on his hand gently, pleased both with the mild pain and the firm pressure diffusing through his teeth to his gums, contrasting with the syrupy sweet sensations flooding his body. There was pain in the pleasure, stimulation so intense he almost didn't want it. In his mind, he heard a gentle whisper of encouragement against his neck, and all at once he remembered how Aymeric had looked sprawled beneath him on the cave floor. Open to him, giving everything without fear or reservation.

 

He came violently, biting down harder and grunting into his hand, even now seeing Aymeric's fingers there to silence his cries.

 

He lay there a moment, feeling overheated and sticky, the usual shame and embarrassment he felt over the act oddly subdued. He withdrew the fingers from his mouth, now pruned with moisture, tepid in flavor and temperature both. This was new. He wondered with bemused irritation if the knight had given him an oral fixation. There was always some way Aymeric threw him off balance, even when he thought he was the one in control.

 

Enough laying about. He swung his feet onto the floor and went to fetch a wash towel, wetting it in the basin and washing his face first, then cleaning the fluids from his hands and body and straightening out his nightclothes. He regarded the towel for a moment before deciding to leave it in the wash. To throw it into the fire and hide the evidence was mere paranoia, as if someone could divine from a dirty cloth the sinful nature of his thoughts.

 

Of course, he thought unbidden, were he to get Aymeric into his bed, the soiled sheets could be a problem.

 

No, that was insane. He shut that field of inquiry down immediately, trying to regain some sense of order over his thoughts. He needed to think about the situation rationally. There were many things he had been ignoring of late and by damn he would sort them all out, and proceed only when he had determined the best course of action. From his bedside he grabbed a light blanket and the glass of water Tataru had left him, and he bundled himself into his chair by the fire to think.

 

Aymeric had asked him by whose will he was damned. He tasted the question slowly on his tongue, thrilling and bitter, and set about unraveling its meanings.

 

One. He had answered the question only in the most obvious way. He refused to be damned by the goddess Aymeric so slavishly served. He'd believed Halone was just, but there could be no justice in damning a man for wanting the 'wrong' person. Either the theologians were wrong, or she was. He had not answered the question fully, though, because the two horns of the dilemma had been disregarded completely in favor of bald defiance. It was clearly not what the knight had needed to know.

 

Two, the surface-level of the question. Was he attracted to men, now or before? He'd have to say he hadn't considered it, but it hadn't really been on his mind. He had heard stories, perhaps dismissed them as the wild product of a society driven to anarchy and hedonism, but never thought to his own preference. He knew only that he hadn't time for women, and that none had caught his eye. Now, a man had his eye. That was easy to report, but in the end, provided no meaningful information.

 

Three, the most-likely intended level of the question. Did Alphinaud do what he did because he was attracted to the man, or seduced? That one felt obvious at first, but became less-so the longer he thought about it. Ser Aymeric had always been magnetically attractive, but he would never have considered bedding a man under ordinary circumstances. The knight had been forward with him of late, like a trusted friend, enough to fluster him, enough to drive him to madness of the sort that got much better men and women killed. If he had been seduced, it had begun weeks ago, and he had been powerless to stop it.

 

But he had also abetted it. The older man had admitted that he had been attracted to men for years, so it stood to reason that the odd behavior he had shown of late was in actuality due to interest in him, be it romantic or merely physical. Suddenly bits and pieces began making sense, a wider picture coming into view. When he had forced the knight to strip and submit to physical examination, it must have affected him deeply, perhaps far more than the petty annoyances that seemed to get under Alphinaud's skin every time they were together. The lingering glances and soft breaths made sense now, and by the time he slipped naked beneath the blankets into his reluctant embrace, it may have already been too late. Aymeric may have been equally seduced, rendering the question of responsibility for their tryst completely meaningless. It was merely fate, and magnetism, and a surrender to passions neither wished to resist.

 

Fourth, and most achingly, he finally knew what it was that he sought. He didn't yet know if it was love, but he did know that he wanted more from the other man. Touches, kisses, things whispered in the dark. Perhaps a relationship, just perhaps. And it was this that he could never have, lest he truly cast Aymeric broken into the abyss.

 

He knew that he cared enough for him to risk his own death. But the question now was, did he care enough for him to give him up, if it was the only way to keep him safe?

 

Heart heavy, Alphinaud rose with the dawn. It was time for a bath. He had many sins to wash away.


	8. The Janitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content and unintentional metaphor.
> 
>  
> 
> **Stay tuned for some sexy fanart at the end of the chapter!**

To say that Alphinaud had made a choice was an exaggeration. It was truer to say that he had identified a problem, and had a set of outcomes he wished to avoid. That being said, it was fairly obvious that what he was doing now was in bold contradiction with his intended course. As the sun gazed dimly from between the Coerthan peaks, he was making his way towards the infirmary, scolding his feet with every step.

 

Tataru met him in the courtyard, carrying a stack of papers in her hands and a piece of buttered bread in her mouth, and looking a little surprised to see him up with the sun. Such industry was so fitting of her bright disposition, of course, that it hardly occurred to him that she might ever do otherwise.

 

She smiled warmly in greeting once he approached, breaking the piece of bread in half and offering him the unbitten side. He accepted the offering dumbly, having quite forgotten that bodies required food to go on working. “Good morning, Alphinaud! I see that you are wearing your coat today. I trust you won't be forgetting it again?”

 

He tore off a bite and swallowed hurriedly, amazed that the simple crust of bread was so appetizing. “Yes, thank you Tataru. As usual you have quite a bit more sense than I.” Ordinarily he would be irritated with her mothering, but he felt he could do with some reminding of his folly for a time. He was shaken, and the badgering of his friends was a reminder that he was alive, and might well help to keep him that way.

 

Without any other direction, Tataru resumed her course toward the Intercessory, and he followed, arguing with himself over his ill-advised desire to see the knight as he finished the morsel of bread. “Oh,” said Tataru suddenly. “Ser Aymeric gave me a message for you last night.”

 

Stupidly, Alphinaud whipped his gaze about the courtyard in alarm, long braid cutting through the chill air. “In private,” he said quietly, finding them to be largely alone save for a few servants or guards here and there, all well out of earshot. Stone echoed, there were many hidden vantage points, and he would take no chances. They walked the rest of the distance to their refuge, his heart thudding loudly, struggling with each step not to rush.

 

When they reached the small office, she was watching him quite queerly indeed. Against his wishes his eyes wandered to the chair where Aymeric had sat while they had traded diplomatic barbs, a feeling like a stone in his chest, heavy and dull. In all his time here, despite Lord Haurchefant's insistence that he make himself at home, he had never sat in the large chair by the wall. It had not felt right. Now, he suspected, he never would, ever avoiding the ghost of a man who hardly even used the room at all. With effort Alphinaud relaxed and doffed the coat, throwing himself into another of the chairs scattered about the room. He wondered if he should tell her, what he should tell her. He was certain she wouldn't judge, but the risk was yet too close, the fear too real. He bit his lip, deciding once again to hedge, guilt fraying at the edge of his conscience. He had long ago learned that the most effective lie was to tell the truth.

 

“I apologize, I seem to be... a bit jumpy. I feel as if I'm losing my wits lately. But Lord Haurchefant is correct; we must take care not to draw undue attention to ourselves.” He took an unsteady breath, no longer certain of anything he did, but pressing on anyway. “And I do not feel it wise to appear too friendly with Ser Aymeric in public. It could damage his position, and thus ours.”

 

The diminutive woman nodded obediently, sympathetically even, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she knew he was hiding something. “Of course,” she said, shaking her head slightly in bemusement. “These Ishgardian folk... they're rather odd about outsiders, aren't they?”

 

“You have no idea,” he answered, more to himself than her. “What of the message?”

 

“Oh! He said to repeat it exactly: 'Please...' no. ' _Pray_ accept  mine gratitude and apologies. I am bound by duty and must away. Someday I wish— _sincerely_ wish—to return your kindness.' That's all. He left for the See last night, so I suppose he was healthy enough to travel.”

 

The message was clearly laced with double meanings, or he would not have asked Tataru to repeat it word-for-word. Clever of him to deliver the message in such a neutral way. To anyone else, including the messenger, it would seem a simple thanks for a life saved, an apology that he could not deliver it in person, and a feeling of obligation to repay the service in kind. Only Alphinaud knew better what service he actually wished to repay, and he fought to keep the color from his face that might give it away. He repeated the message several times in his mind, turning it over like an hourglass. That Aymeric wished to 'return the kindness,' meant that he was still interested, whether in a relationship or something more physical. That much was obvious from the way they had parted. The stone in his chest increased in weight as he remembered the parting kiss before the gate, foolish beyond measure. The 'sincere wish' could indicate the strength of his ardor or... that he recognized it as foolish to act upon, an idle dream. 'Someday' was the word that bothered him most. It signaled an ambiguous, unspecified time in the unknowable future, and while it could also mean someday soon, that option seemed rather unlikely.

 

When he combined that likelihood with the phrase 'bound by duty,' he was forced to conclude that the knight had reached the same answer he had earlier: that they could not continue their relationship, given his office and his faith. Hence the apologies. His gratitude likely referred to the joy with which he had seemed to receive their time together. Aymeric had taken it all in the moment, a gift, to be treasured and not regretted, even if they would likely never be able to repeat it.

 

He was not so sure he was strong enough to remember it with such joy and equanimity. So this was what heartbreak felt like, he thought numbly.

 

“Alphinaud?” Evidently he had buried his face in his hands, and he was surprised to find moisture pooling in the corners of his eyes, tears taking advantage of his distraction to wage an insurgent war on his dignity. “Are you quite alright? Are you sure you don't need to see the healer after-all?”

 

He peeked through his fingers to see her at his knees, peering up at him with concern. Quickly he blinked away the half-formed tears, sitting up properly to answer. “No. Though, now that I think on it... I am quite hungry.”

 

She grinned widely, glad to finally be able to help. “Let's go see the cooks, then. We've gotten quite friendly, and I'm sure they'll be happy to get our _hero_ an early breakfast!”

 

They made their way out again into the cold, but Alphinaud let his gaze linger for a moment more on the empty chair behind the desk. Reluctantly he turned his back on it and followed the lalafel, shrugging back into his warm coat and wishing,  _sincerely_ , that he could trade it instead for a strong embrace.

 

 

 

 

 

Days passed in silence, possibly weeks, he was having difficulty keeping track. No winds blew, and the occasional snows wafted downwards with the stillness of a painting, beautiful and calm like the pure ideal in some artist's eye. Time passed without anything seeming to move at all.

 

Tataru had given him his space, seeming to sense his ennui but asking no questions he didn't want to answer. He ate properly, stayed warm, spake with the many adventurers they entertained, made conversation with Lord Haurchefant in the deep nights. He did it all without feeling alive, ever his thoughts pointed toward Ishgard, where some day soon they were sure to hear word or their diplomatic petition. Presumably, he would hear it from Ser Aymeric, though he could never quite answer the question for himself as to whether he  _wanted_ to see him again, knowing that they would have to pretend that nothing had happened between them.

 

Abruptly, the decision was made for him.

 

Alphinaud had risen to make his way to breakfast, walking down the hallway from his room with coat in hand and grimoire at his side, mind gone to some other place. The initial bustle of activity in the early morning had already calmed, the halls quiet until around noon when the servants would begin to keep house in the visitor quarters and prepare for tea. So when he passed by an unadorned wooden door, set just slightly ajar, he was not expecting it to suddenly swing open.

 

He was also not expecting to be pulled roughly into the dark, a strong hand clasped over his mouth to silence his shout of alarm.

 

He was most especially not expecting to be pressed against the door with an iron grip at his shoulder, a sense of familiarity and longing filling him before he even registered who it was that held him captive. By the time his voice had stilled and his mouth was released, he had already identified the man down to his scent and the silken texture of his fingerless gloves.

 

Aymeric withdrew his hands, and a clumsy clattering beside him suggested the forcing of a wooden rod through the door handle to keep it securely closed, from within and without. He then felt, rather than saw, the hands move to plant against the door over his head, leaning over him but refusing to touch. On instinct, Alphinaud held absolutely still, as if under the watchful eye of a deadly predator.

 

Neither spoke.

 

It took only a few moments more for his sight to adjust to the dim light flowing beneath the door. It was indeed a supply closet he'd been pulled into, of all the foolish things, though he noted a few weapons here and there, as if the staff might be expected to take up arms against a dragon while they turned down a bed.

 

Aymeric was peering down at him, and while his eyes were concealed in deep shadow, he could feel their intensity. The other man was tense, he could almost smell the nervousness on him, mixed into the warm scent of sweat and well-worn armor. He was close, perhaps only ilms between them. By some mutual agreement they kept their distance, though the scant space almost felt as if it required conscious effort to maintain.

 

As it seemed the knight had abdicated the responsibility, Alphinaud spoke first, as quietly as he could manage with the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm his calm. “Why are we in the broom cupboard?”

 

The knight let out a breath, suggesting that he had perhaps been holding it in for some time. A moment, two perhaps, passed before he answered. “I was hoping we could talk.” Blessedly, the deep rumble of his voice had been constricted to a tight whisper, so it was only the exhale of breath near his ear that made Alphinaud feel dizzy and out of his mind.

 

“... In a closet,” Alphinaud clarified.

 

“In private.”

 

“Where anyone could happen in, at any time, looking for a broom, or mop, or  _sword._ This is possibly the worst place in all of Coerthas for a clandestine meeting.” His whisper had morphed into a frantic hiss, panic lapping at the shores of his reason, fingers tightening into the fur lining the edge of his coat. Really, they had private rooms. Even the Intercessory would have been better. Tataru would surely afford them some privacy if asked, keeping any suspicions to herself.

 

Thinking about having the man alone in the Intercessory was probably a bad idea. His proximity was reminding him of so many things that he wanted, and he was certain there were better uses for that desk than paperwork and diplomatic meetings. He caught an unsteady breath, unable to keep his pulse from quickening, and he was sure that the knight was aware of it because he heard an answering hitch in the other man's breathing, as if their thoughts and bodies were attuned perfectly.

 

“I rather intended the meeting to be brief,” answered the knight, with just enough voice to remind Alphinaud that it made him crazy, even as the words stabbed like needles. “I must know...”

 

It was well apparent that he had something he needed to say, but the sentence choked off into silence, dying before it reached his throat.

 

The silence burned around Alphinaud's ears, filled with the sound of his blood, the squeak of hinges and ancient woodwork, the quavering of the knight's breath. He waited, struck dumb and refusing to imagine the sentence's completion. There was danger in the air, mixed with eddies of dust and the taste of tools long worn to rust and despair.

 

Aymeric shifted closer, giving in a little to the gravity between them and resting his elbows on the door. He seemed to slide downward a fraction as well, giving heat and moisture to the breathing in his ear. Alphinaud closed un-seeing eyes against the assault and raked his fingers against the door behind him, wishing for something more secure to hold onto, coat sagging forgotten to the dusty floor.

 

“I must know if you feel as fondly for me as I do for you,” Aymeric finally murmured, the sentence tumbling forth all at once, trembling only on the final word.

 

It hurt. It hurt exquisitely, the pain opening like a morning glory in his chest, sweet and beautiful and vulnerable to the world. It overwhelmed him for several long moments, washing through him like the dull warmth of a hot autumn sun, bewildering in its strength.

 

Unconsciously, a shaking hand reached out for the man before him, resting lightly on his stomach and reveling in the heat pooling beneath the fine cloth. The contact jolted him, jolted them both. Aymeric sucked a hard breath through his teeth, twitching away from the contact just a hair's breadth before relaxing against it. One of the arms the knight had braced against the door slid downward, and a searching hand burrowed behind his shoulders to embrace him without pulling him close. The taller man stilled again, pointedly avoiding more contact, face tucked just almost into the hollow of his neck, awaiting his answer.

 

It was the same question, he realized, once the pain had dulled to a warm ache in his bones. The same question Aymeric had asked in their private purgatory, though then he had tried to hide his desperation. It was loose now, and the knight had apparently had to resort to caging it like a wild animal, attempting to shut it away so that only the object of his need could see how deeply he suffered.

 

Alphinaud knew the answer to that question now. He just didn't know what he should do with it. Or whether, in the end, he really had a choice.

 

“I'm a fool,” he whispered at last. “It is a foolish thing we do. But I find I cannot bear to do otherwise.” A hot breath at his neck quickened in surprise, held again, as if unable to believe his words. Alphinaud reached out his other hand, tracing them both across the other man's front until they came to rest at either side of his hips, a light touch, welcoming. “Would you forgive me my selfishness if I said... even though I fear for you... that I cannot let you go?”

 

He let the declaration echo out between them, frightened suddenly by the finality of it. But it was all true, and he would not take it back even if he had wanted to. Aymeric made a strange, sad sound beside him, a high-pitched gasp that was almost a sob. And then finally, whatever force was counteracting the pull between them, ebbed and broke apart. They barely even moved, and their standoff effortlessly became an embrace, soft and cautious. The breath at his neck tickled, then became a touch, the knight drawing his nose and lips over his skin, kissing and nuzzling up his chin, missing his mouth for his cheek. He pressed their foreheads together, tilting his head and caressing the back of Alphinaud's neck with insistent fingers, and finally locked together the spot at the bridge of his nose, the connection deep and intimate, eyelashes fluttering against too-soft skin. They stayed like that for a long breath, reluctant to move now that they both knew what they wanted, and had it, if just for a time.

 

That time was so brief, so fragile. Fraught with risk, ready to drop and break any time like a lily made of glass. Knowing what they wanted was only the first step. It was the steps after that that could see them fall.

 

The stillness did not last. The precarious balance of gravity shifted, and Aymeric was kissing him, cradling him close as if he needed them to occupy the same space. The kiss was chaste and slow, and Alphinaud allowed him to dictate the pace. He was shocked into meditative compliance, experiencing the moment as Aymeric first had, with joy and wonder tinged with only a taste of sorrow. The lips that moved against his seemed nothing short of a miracle. When the other man's mouth finally opened to him, tracing his lower lip with gentle teeth and vibrating with a deep satisfied hum, Alphinaud was possessed by vertigo, feeling as if he had been briefly pulled out of time and then back again before a beat of his own heart had passed.

 

Where his lips went, his tongue followed. It was no longer enough to be held, his hands seizing in Aymeric's clothing and pawing in irritation at the edge of the breastplate that blocked his touch. Why did he need so much damn armor? Surely it was uncomfortable. The close air in the closet was overheated and stiflingly still, and Alphinaud felt sticky with sweat even in his light tunic. Aymeric seemed to agree with his frustration, pulling his head backwards with a firm hand in his hair, no longer patient to explore, seeking instead to claim, with his teeth and tongue and breath.

 

Alphinaud moaned quietly into his mouth, sensing urgency now that time had ticked forward. Abandoning his feeble efforts to touch the man's chest, he let his hands reach around the man's waist, where he pressed forwards with his own hips. Their embrace had already turned lusty, but it evolved into sin in that moment, the heat of the knight's erection burning through their clothing and pressing into his stomach. The other man gasped, not surprised but thoroughly gratified, and he answered by shifting his stance to press an armored leg firmly between Alphinaud's. With minute care he drew the leg upwards, leaning heavily into the door until the hinges creaked and the broom handle groaned, searching for just the right angle of his hips to caress the younger man's cock and tease of so much more.

 

As it happened, every angle worked fine, but the small movement drove his body and imagination wild. He abandoned their fraught kiss to bury his face into the other man's neck, back arching with pleasure, licking up droplets of sweat and salt and the taste that was Aymeric. His breath shuddered into gasps of need as the friction ceased, and he wanted, needed, more.

 

“Please,” he whispered, though his voice trembled, blown like a leaf on the winds of his emotions. He was afraid, he realized, afraid of something just out of his sight, something other than the abstract worry that had been relegated to world outside their embrace. But he could simply no-longer identify the source. The fear was still there, making him hesitate to fully submit, but he could deny the coiling tension within him no longer. He felt that if he didn't answer it his spine would shatter like overwound clockwork. “Please, Aymeric,” he repeated breathlessly, unable to give name to his desires, trusting the other man to find a way to make them come true.

 

His trust was not misplaced. Aymeric made a sound that seemed a mix between a breathy moan and a shuddering gasp of pleasure, renewing the pressure on his groin and trembling just slightly. Not enough. But the hand that stroked his neck and shoulders released him, winding down his back and side with something like impatience, dancing with his fingers but unable to stay long enough to truly tease. He had a clear destination in mind, and this time he didn't even pause for confirmation, grasping Alphinaud's clothed erection in his palm. He didn't stay still either, flexing his fingers gently as he pressed downwards, sliding his hand along the length and dipping between his legs to caress his scrotum. Alphinaud nearly slammed his head against the door, not shunning the attention but somehow shocked by the boldness of it, the tips of his ears heating with embarrassment. The firm pressure against his shaft was delightful, and the knight didn't let up, though he kept his movements small and precise. The teasing of his fingertips bewildered him with softness and care, stealing the breath from his throat before it could reach his lungs. Aymeric leaned their foreheads together again, weight still heavy on the arm that held them both secure against the door, humming a soft sound in the corners of his attention, almost a song but not quite.

 

“Is this what you want, love?” His voice was quiet, not a whisper but a rumble in the deep, reigned in so that only he could hear. Alphinaud's hands were moving of their own volition, clawing their way up the man's back and tangling in his cloak, trying to pull him closer, confounded by the barriers between them and around them. He sought out the knight's lips again, needing the comfort of his mouth, needing to use his lips and tongue to diffuse the overwhelming feelings. The pleased hum continued, long notes trailing into silence and starting again, seeming to fill them both, a lifeline in the dark.

 

He wanted more. Vainly he tried to press into the warmth of the knight's palm, but it did little good, the knee between his legs pushing him firmly against the warming wood at his back. The stroking was firm and even, grip shifting at intervals and pace increasing only slowly. It made him starved for air, gasping around the other man's tongue in frantic bursts. A small light of clarity penetrated his clouded mind, just for a moment, reminding him that he could no longer feel the other man's arousal pressed against him. He loosed a hand from the maze of leather and fabric wound around the knight's back and went hunting on his own, making Aymeric hiss into his mouth when he found his target. Alphinaud had no shyness when it came to touching his lover, certainly not anymore. He twisted his hand flat against the other man's stomach and drove his fingers beneath the line of his belt, finding heat and slickness and much more. With some effort against the restrictive clothing he grasped the large cock in his hands, a surprising amount of fluid having soaked into his smallclothes. He liked that, liked that it was for him.

 

He liked that it made Aymeric lose himself just a little, stilling against him and groaning deeply, pressing his forehead against the door and panting disconnected breaths. It took only that long for the lack of movement to become urgent, need quickly building into something almost like pain, and he wiggled his hips against the knight's hand to remind him of his task. His shame, apparently, lay forgotten on the floor with his coat.

 

“No,” said the knight, dark with promise, in such a way as to make it sound like a 'yes.' But he grabbed his hand away from Alphinaud and wrapped it around the younger man's wrist, gently pulling the offending hand free. Alphinaud had a mind to struggle, but obeyed, his only act of defiance a firm finger run over the tip as he retreated, making the other man grunt and twitch. He brought the finger to his mouth, allowing his tongue freedom do to as it pleased, lapping up traces of the viscous pre-cum and savoring the vivid memories it recalled.

 

Aymeric growled softly, apparently able to see just enough of the display to appreciate it. Alphinaud tried to return a challenging glare, but succeeded only in smirking petulantly into the darkness.

 

Large hands were on him again, though not where he wanted them. They pushed him softly away, hands at his hips pressing him firmly against the door. The strong leg that had held him so securely was gone, leaving him with a cold sense of loss. He wanted to yell with frustration, but something other than the need for stealth stayed his breath. He waited, watched the vague shape of Aymeric shift, then heard the muted clank of plate armor as the man dropped to his knees before him.

 

Oh.

 

He suddenly remembered his shame, and wildly attempted to merge backwards into the door in a bright moment of panic. Long fingers soothed him though, reaching up to stroke his exposed side, then rubbing circles on his stomach. The light was clearer by the floor, and when he took a steadying breath he could dimly see the soft expression on Aymeric's face as he gazed up at him. Suffused with need, panting lightly through parted lips and close, too close. Alphinaud just had to touch him, threading fingers through his hair and stroking him all the way to the small hairs at the back of his neck, tracing the point of his ear with reverent fingertips.

 

Aymeric took the action as an invitation, and he supposed, after the fact, that it was.

 

The knight ran careful hands up his thighs, pushing the edge of the tunic up and away and exposing his stomach. He kissed the area lovingly, lips and tongue and even teeth. It wasn't the area he explored but the thought behind the attention that was so arresting. That coupled with the novelty of the touch made him sigh with contentment, breath trembling but a little. He felt exposed, but it was a good kind of exposure, like telling a secret to a trusted friend and giggling all the while. He almost did laugh when the tongue dipped unexpectedly into his navel, but at the last second it became a tiny moan.

 

Aymeric dipped lower, and to Alphinaud's surprise he ran his lips down over his tight-fitting shorts to his erection. He made no effort to free it or remove the material, merely grasping it with his teeth and applying firm pressure. That got his attention, touch far too light to satisfy but more than enough to tease. He wished he could see the other man's face fully. As it was, he could see only the graceful lines of his jaw and cheek-bone, and the place where his open mouth disappeared into grim shadow. He was sure his eyes held dark mischief in them, narrowed with playful temptation as he dragged his teeth back and forth, the mere ghost of a suggestion of the promise of pleasure.

 

So when the holy knight searched with his fingers for a way to free him of the offending clothing, Alphinaud spent only a moment in indecision. When he moved to assist with the buttons on his shorts and Aymeric laced their fingers together, his breath caught with feeling. It was like when he had learned to swim, years ago. Letting go, letting the water hold you, trusting it not to let you drown. It was fear at the same time as trust, not opposite but equal. Trust for Aymeric, and surprisingly, trust for himself. He whimpered with the surge of feeling, and then everything was forgotten, drowning, down, down into the depths of the dark.

 

Falling. For a brief moment he didn't know which way was up, the world spinning exquisitely around him. He was pressed against the door, his head tipped back against it, shoulders and arms ram-rod straight, the anchor that kept him secured to reality. His mouth had flown open into a silent scream, then all he could do was gasp, the act of drawing air too complex to complete. Aymeric had apparently expended all of his patience, because the man's tongue was all over him, tasting every corner of his skin. It had shocked him, the heat and softness, the way the saliva cooled instantly as soon as the probing tongue moved to caress another spot, the firm grip at the base of his shaft that had a tendency to wander, caressing his balls and stroking between his thighs. Aymeric gave no quarter, taking every ilm for himself, memorizing it, cataloging flavor and texture and scent, leaving only sight for later, and evidently doing whatever he could to provoke him into sound. Or perhaps the knight was providing the sound, because now that he was no longer falling into space, he could hear an assortment of growls, small and quick like the tiny touches of his tongue and grazes of his lips, just loud enough to feel the vibration.

 

“Ah... Matron...” the pathetic whine was the first sound he could manage, though he had been certain there had been either more force or more coherence to the words before he said them. One hand had to seek the other man out, wind into his hair and pull, not to move him but to feel the resistance. The action stilled the other man, not his intent at all, but he did not regret it. The clever tongue slowed its movements, focused them. It drew slowly up the length, pressure firm and wet and honey-sweet. Warm breath flowed over his skin, tingling and making him feel hot and cold at the same time. Lips, soft, cool and dry in comparison, gently caressed his shaft with fluttering kisses, before he felt the hot mouth swallow him whole.

 

Alphinaud was surprised that the lusty moan was his, too deep, too ragged, too loud by far. Aymeric seemed determined to take all of him at once, so when the knight rumbled a deep answering groan, he felt it, felt it in ways he had never imagined. He needed to get control over himself, though he couldn't remember why, he could feel danger pressing around him, hushing him to silence. His last anchor against the solidity of reason, the arm he'd been leaning into the door with all his sanity, lifted to his lips. He thought he could feel the back of the man's throat constricting around the head of his cock, or maybe he was being eaten alive. He barely had time to grasp his glove in his teeth and worry it aside before biting hard onto his bare wrist to muffle a hard, lusty groan. The pain became his new anchor, bleeding into him and winding through his sensations and flavoring them a quick, dull red.

 

Sounds by the floor, movements. Metal clinking, fabric rustling. Movements that had slowed and stilled suddenly gained new significance as another deep groan sounded around his cock, and he knew that Aymeric had given in to the urge to touch himself. He cursed at the darkness in half-formed phrases laced through his pleasure, eyes unable to focus even without the gloom. He let his fingers signal his approval, softly tugging at the hair at the base of the man's skull, pulling just enough to say, _more._

 

One of the knight's hands returned to his hip, the other being thoroughly occupied. Whatever stillness had settled over him was dispelled, moving not just his head but perhaps his entire body to thrust deeply against the younger man. His tongue was alive, wicked, venomous, stroking him all the while and paying particular care to the tip as he drew back, resolved to lap up anything Alphinaud gave him. He feared it wouldn't be long, his breath was coming in hoarse gasps from around his abused wrist, salt long licked clean, tasting of Copper now instead of Sodium, the flavor felt not just by his tongue but his teeth, his lips. It wasn't enough to keep him quiet, but it at least prevented the harsher sounds from echoing around the room, keeping them muted, safe, a warm embrace.

 

It was sound that did it, sound transformed to touch. Like electricity, Aymeric's pleasure vibrated through him, and it wasn't just the feeling but the _implication_ , part memory, part imagination, all laced with the clear fact of the holy man's insane desire for him, for _him._ He came undone, the sound flowing through him and turning to actions, turning to whimpers and blood and ejaculate, his whole body shuddering and tensing and releasing all at the same time. There was a pause where he ceased to exist, like a note of rest in a beguiling melody, and then he was moaning again and sliding down the door, guided down gently by a firm hand. Cradled soft, close. The man was leaning over him, pressing together foreheads slightly chill with sweat.

 

Trembling still, not even sure which way gravity was pointing, Alphinaud reached out a hand to capture the other man's wrist, bringing his fingers to his lips. Salt, alkaline, earthy, he drew them into his mouth, noting with some pleasure that the glove still covered his palm, now smeared with semen, filthy like his transgressions. When he released the hand, Aymeric seized him again, a quick frantic kiss, the last gust of the storm. They lay that way for a long moment, tasting each-other's breath, shaken to the core.

 

Reality had a way of intruding.

 

First at the edges of his awareness, dim worry. Reflected on the features of his lover, a bright beam of light finally illuminating his eyes now that they huddled on the floor.

 

“I don't care,” Alphinaud said, voice still a bit shaken. Callous words, transformed into a declaration of love, as they had been on the snowy plain. The words seemed to have a soothing effect on the other man, drawing away the worry from his eyes like poison leeched from a wound.

 

“It seems I don't either.” And Aymeric smiled a little bit, smiled as if accepting a challenge.

 

Then reality knocked.

 

The door rattled on its hinges, then a fist pounded at the door. Both men startled, clutching each other's elbows in wild instinct, silent like mice in the shadow of a cat.

 

“Lucy!” A woman's voice pressed against the door, harsh and insistent, focused to penetrate their prison rather than resound through the hall. “I know it's you in there! There's work to do, I'll need you _and_ the mop. And another mop besides, like as not, and I don't mean your _friend_. You have five minutes to finish and then I'm coming back for you!”

 

Alphinaud was dizzy, catatonic with fear, but Aymeric was moving already. He snatched a cloth from somewhere, using it to clean himself, then set about straightening his clothing as quietly as possible given that half of it was beaten metal. Alphinaud moved after only a moment of overriding panic, pressing his ear against the floor to confirm that the footsteps had faded down the hall and out of hearing range. Then he took the rag and mirrored Aymeric's actions, and stuffed the evidence beneath a shelf where it would likely lay abandoned for moons.

 

“Me first,” he mouthed, almost no breath passing his lips to give the thought voice. The stoic knight nodded grimly, what little that could be seen of his expression having turned to steel.

 

He didn't care. Time to test his mettle.

 

Ear to the door, no sound. He opened it slightly, then peeked into the sliver of light, seeing nothing. The footsteps had trailed off in the other direction from the way visible from the door, meaning that the girl had gone towards the exit, and he would be unable to see her approach from within. Deciding to cut his losses, he stepped out boldly and shut the door to near closing, leaving his palm visible to the man still concealed within to signal when it was safe.

 

At that moment, the maid returned, in defiance of both convenience and her own timetable. She rounded the corner at the end of the hall, and looked at him blankly.

 

It was the same young woman he had helped with the blankets earlier, a part of him registered with disinterest. She was carrying a bucket of water, which was only noteworthy because she immediately dropped it, the water sloshing out onto the floor and staining the faded carpet with foam.

 

Then she drew her hands to her mouth, daintily almost, curling her knuckles white at her chin.

 

And she shrieked, a quick, muted sound like a mouse grabbed by an owl. She shrieked with _terror_ , as if he had been a voidsent emerging from the closet and not a seventeen-year-old politician. He had barely managed to widen his eyes in shock and horror, raising an arm as if to calm her, when she fled around the corner, feet thudding at what must have been her top speed.

 

“Run,” he said to his hidden companion, though in retrospect it had hardly needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not worthy to receive this incredible fanart from Fadeddreamss! Seriously, go see it, right now!
> 
> Inktober #8 by Fadeddreamss  
> https://instagram.com/p/80L-lCqvpU/


	9. The Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated H for Haurchefant.
> 
> This is the chapter that inspired me to write An Acquired Taste, a stand-alone Omake (bonus) that takes place well before the story. It is not required reading, but you may enjoy it nonetheless. It can be found along side this work, and you needn't complete this story before reading it.

After the terrified Miqo'te had fled down the hall, Alphinaud had reacted automatically, not unlike his ill-advised foray into the storm. He had told Aymeric to run, his voice quiet but otherwise normal, neither a whisper nor a shout, no panic or agitation to be heard. His hand was still outstretched, fingers poised just in front of the barely-open door where his partner could see it without being seen himself. He had thought to signal for safety, but safety had long-since fled the building.

 

“Wait,” returned a quiet voice from the shadow. Alphinaud refused to look as his coat was pressed into his grip, then his gloved palm was enveloped in Aymeric's larger hands. They gave him a reassuring squeeze, long and unnecessary, as reckless or moreso than the kiss he'd stolen outside the gate. All the same, some tiny place inside of him surged with warmth, somehow needing to know that the other man was resolute. “Now go,” the knight finished, a commanding whisper, and he did.

 

He didn't care. He cared about Aymeric, of course, so much that it hurt him physically, a great wound in his chest like a river-carved canyon. He cared about the consequences too, the mere thought of his lover being in harm's way making him seize up inside, freeze cold and dark. But he didn't care about the risk anymore. It was worth it, he was worth it. He was worth whatever it took to protect him. It was worth it to hear the other man agree, to see the razor-thin smile on his lips, the brightness of his eyes. Damn the consequences, damn them to the seven hells.

 

He wondered, ice swirling in his veins, how thoroughly he would be willing to damn himself.

 

His mind was resolute, unsullied by doubt as he walked calmly after the girl. He knew the layout of the building. That was the only exit, which meant that with the exception of anyone occupying the private rooms, the only way anyone would enter was the way she had gone, and he could intercept and delay them if necessary. He felt rather than heard Aymeric retreat the other direction down the hall, likely to lock himself in his room until any commotion died down, removing himself from the scene of the crime until an opportunity presented itself to leave. Alphinaud took care not to look back until he was gone, making certain that no doors had opened to see his passing. All was quiet.

 

When he reached the corner of the hall, it was clear to see that she had gone. So he followed the faded carpet outside, where he could find no sign of her. No fingers pointed in his direction either, and the place seemed to be operating much as normal. Schooling his expression from the grim blankness it had become, he put on his coat and went for a walk outside the gate, needing to remove himself completely from the scene in order to analyze it.

 

A few hours later he returned to the camp, his head becalmed somewhat. He had thought it over repeatedly, and had come to the conclusion that it was all rather odd. He had no idea what had spooked her so thoroughly. It was likely clear what he had been up to, but he could see no reason for her to be so afrighted by it, even granted the odd religious zeal of the people here. She wasn't even an Elezen, likely born some other place and here only for the coin. Regardless, it seemed that there wasn't much he could do about it. Without knowing why she reacted as she did, there was no real way for him to anticipate her actions, and thus no way to counter them. The only thing he was sure of was that the knight had not been seen by her, and it was unlikely that he had been seen by anyone else. With no-one knowing that they had been in the closet _together_ , the repercussions, whatever they might be, would likely fall only upon Alphinaud. That was a compromise he would accept happily.

 

Which meant that the only thing he could do now was to gather information. There was no camp-wide manhunt for him, everything seemed as normal. Almost moreso, as if the volume of daily life had amplified now that he strained to hear it. He found Tataru in the Intercessory, sorting out her Triad cards, a pile of completed reports abandoned on the desk.

 

She had greeted him normally, only inquiring where he had been and whether anything was wrong. He must have looked a fright, at least to her. She had spent so much time at his side of late that he knew she was quite aware that something was wrong. As she had ever since he'd returned from the dead, though, she only looked at him in that curious, appraising way. Damn the intuition of women.

 

He reassured the Lalafel that he was only hungry, having missed lunch in favor of a walk to clear his head—the truth, or a tiny fraction thereof. Fortunately it was supper-time by then, the day nearly concluded. Subtly he questioned her about the goings on around the camp, letting her chatter overtake the silence in his heart. Nothing noteworthy seemed to have happened, no gossip from her friends in the kitchens. He consented to sit with her and eat in the common room, though he could not refrain from taking a position in the far corner, the better to watch the door. Tataru watched him pick at his food with obvious concern, occasionally reminding him that he had claimed to be hungry, and hen-pecking about his general health.

 

At length Lord Haurchefant entered the room, scanning the crowd until his clear blue eyes rested on Alphinaud. That did not bode well. His stomach sank even further as the lord approached him with a casual air, settling down across the table, resting his elbows on the surface and giving him a meaningful look. Considering. Almost as if he were sizing the younger man up, trying to come up with some new opinion, though they had known each-other for some time.

 

“The raven has flown, unattended. Be at ease.” His voice had a quiet gravity that did not match his easy posture, or the usual, slightly unhinged demeanor of the strange man. Alphinaud blinked up at him, too stunned at first to be properly relieved.

 

When Aymeric had tasked Tataru with delivering a message, it had been phrased neutrally, plausibly. This was not plausible. This was coded in such a way as to make it completely obvious that it was encrypted, just _begging_ the listener to decipher its meaning. That meant that Haurchefant had encoded it himself, and thus that he knew enough of what was happening to have liberty with his phrasing. Alphinaud was unable to stop his head from dropping into his hand, his last refuge from insanity. “Thank you, Lord Haurchefant,” he muttered through his palm, more to prevent him from saying anything further than in appreciation. Perhaps he could be at ease—later.

 

“You should invest more trust in your friends,” the enigmatic lord replied. “You have more allies than you are wont to admit.” When Alphinaud peeked through his fingers he was looking pointedly at Tataru, and a shift of his glance verified that she was looking up at him, lips quirked in irritation, eyebrows lifted  _just so._

 

He sighed wearily, defeated, but unable to give in just yet. “Yes, of course. It has ever been thus. Both of you. Thank you.” But he could say no more, not a word, those few short sentences being far too much to choke out of his constricted throat.

 

The blue-haired man narrowed his eyes and let the corners of his mouth wander upwards a fraction, a tiny conspiratorial smile, as if to confirm that he knew at least enough to be dangerous. But that was the last of the damage he would do. “I shall call on you anon.” He rose to leave, moving around the hall to greet various guests before sitting down to dinner himself, leaving Alphinaud alone with Tataru and his uneaten meal.

 

He waited.

 

“And the raven would be...” there it was. Tataru said it in such a way as to leave no doubt that she already knew the answer.

 

“Yes. I will not speak of this here.” Neither his tone nor his gaze left any room for argument. The hurt reflected in her lavender eyes made him wonder if he had changed that much over the course of the day, or if he had simply never before showed such steel to her. Guiltily, he looked away again, poking a cut of poultry with his fork. “You deserve answers, but I cannot give them as yet,” he added with a touch of softness.

 

 

 

 

Back in his room, following the heels of the setting sun, he took a moment to collect himself. While he had calmed considerably during his walk, he only seemed to feel now the incredible strain of the day, panic and fatigue making his blood feel strange, tired, acid in his veins. What he needed was the comforting embrace of his lover, but it was far better that he was long gone. He would make do with his feather mattress and memories prized at too great a cost.

 

He leaned his weary shoulders against the wood and bolted the door. The cool surface was different than the door he had leaned against hours previous, the wood polished and lacquered smooth and providing a cooling diffusion of the tension that coiled there. He slipped off his gloves absently, bringing up his abused hand, tracing the mark with detached bemusement. His teeth had found the spot where his wrist joined with the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb, easily concealed. There was an angry bruised crescent visible from each side, neat, deliberate.

 

It hurt still, a dull red throb which worried against the sweat-worn fabric the entire day, calling his thoughts to places he would rather have been. He was trying to be careful, muffling, not biting, but at the end, the delightful shattering of his will had made restraint quite impossible. It was not too deep, breaking the skin only in a few small places, only enough to taste and feel with the intensity of a hot iron. Now that he had done it he was not so averse to the pain, and idly he wished he could let it heal on its own, hidden beneath his pure white glove and singing songs of sin. It was not worth the risk, of course. Bites were a peculiar sort of wound, and he could not afford a scar. Not worth the potential questions.

 

He would do something for it in the morning. In the meantime he settled for rinsing it in the basin, the cold water stinging and setting his nerves to chattering in a most pleasing way. Sharp now, not dull, and he closed his eyes to listen until the shock ebbed away. Then he stirred himself to movement, wandering wearily to his pillow and the promise of hours free from worry, at least in the conscious realm.

 

That was odd.

 

There was a folded scrap of paper sitting on his pillow. It was crumpled in some spots and large droplets of ink were visible, bleeding through the other side. The only person he would have expected to leave him a message would be Aymeric, and he had delivered his message through other means, having had much more sense than to come here and commit his crimes to writing.

 

With trepidation, he snatched it up and moved to the fire to see it better. The script was large, spidery, with blots of ink in odd places as if the writer had frequently paused mid-way, having forgotten quite how to shape the letters. It said, simply, “YOR SEKRIT IZ SAEF.”

 

That was it. The last thread. The only person that could have left this was the poor maid, who no doubt knew the living arrangements well, being responsible for their upkeep.

 

He remembered back to the morning's panic, the ice that had frozen his heart and hardened his resolve. He had not been sure—still was not sure—but for a long, sick moment, he had considered killing the maid, if it could have meant preventing Aymeric's secret from escaping. The blood on his hands, the life of an innocent young woman... had seemed pale in comparison to the chance of losing his knight to a cruel execution.

 

How he had fallen. No, he was sure of it now, he was not capable of it, not then and not ever. But the mere thought... the mere thought. He sank to the floor, leaning against his chair and hugging his knees.

 

He wanted to weep, but all he could feel just then was numbness.

 

 

 

 

 

He was awoken too soon from a fitful sleep, hard-won and hardly restful. A knock at the door, insistent. Alphinaud lay sleepily in the warm bed, more inclined to listen to his body, the drowsing comfort preferable to mental acuity irrespective of whom it offended.

 

The knock sounded again a minute later, persistent but not angry. A muffled voice could be heard from the corridor, just loud enough to carry.

 

“Alphinaud, you can't hide from me forever. I can take this door off its hinges and the only person who shall be put out by it is you.”

 

Blast. Haurchefant had carried through on his visit, and entirely too soon. Alphinaud stirred himself to motion a little too violently and ended up rolling onto the floor, the impact of cold stone shocking him awake immediately. He pushed his body to movement despite its protests, blood not quite catching up with his brain. He threw open the door to greet the insufferably cheerful lord, blinking away the purple and black spots that danced around the periphery of his vision. Phantoms of misery soon to come.

 

He looked as if he had never been more pleased in his life. “Alphinaud, my gracious, you look...” wide eyes took in his rumpled appearance with delight, and he was slapped in the face with self-consciousness as he fully registered that he had answered the door in his sleeping clothes. Yes, he was decent. Technically. He certainly was _not_ put together. He was clothed only in a pair of loose drawstring pants and a rumpled shirt, slightly too small to fully cover his stomach as he hadn't bothered to replace it for a few years. The matched set was pale blue, making him look even more childlike, and his hair was likely ruffled as a chocobo's tail. Without thinking he reached down to grab his pants where they had ridden a little too low over one hip, realizing only too late that it brought attention to his embarrassment.

 

“You are positively  _adorable!_ ”

 

No, he was  _not_ blushing, not even a little. But he was not enjoying the sensation of being made to feel as if he were still six years old, being cooed over by every maiden and matron who passed. This must be how  L alafel often felt, he realized. Well at least he was not the only person on the receiving end of such disrespect. Too sluggish and too sleepy to hide his discomfort, he turned his back to the door in the rudest invitation he could manage. He padded on bare feet toward the fire to put the kettle on, needing some activity to distract him.

 

“I'm fairly certain we have some mutual acquaintances that could wipe that smirk off your face if I asked,” he groused. He didn't have the martial prowess to defend his own honor, so he compromised with a low blow. Behind him he heard the door thud closed and the bolt swing shut. This was not in itself strange, especially given the secretive nature of their business, but it filled him with strange foreboding nonetheless. Against his will he imagined that his only escape route had been cut off.

 

“Hmm, yes, but there's only one whom I fear I might provoke, and it's worth more than just my life were I to displease him.” He could _hear_ Haurchefant grin, the coeurl who'd caught the chocobo. He turned with a scowl to see him rooting around the cupboard for the cups and tea, a task which Alphinaud had wanted for himself, hoping it would keep him from having to look at the other man for at least half a minute. This at least was still avoidance, though, and it seemed to take the whimsical man longer than strictly necessary. He had pulled half the cabinet's contents out onto the floor, arranging bowls, napkins, cutlery, and a salt shaker in neat little stacks.

 

Avoidance only worked so long, though. Alphinaud was at least ready for him now, eased into his armchair and slightly more composed, clothing and hair smoothed out just a little and feeling slightly less like a vagrant. The lord finally appeared with a pair of earthenware mugs and a wooden box, sitting across from him in the other chair before the fire. Aymeric's chair, he thought before he could stop himself.

 

“You don't look like you slept well,” the lord said conversationally as he sorted tea leaves into the two cups, one long leaf at a time, according to some logic of his own. A glance toward the cupboard confirmed Alphinaud's suspicion, that little if any of its contents had been put away. It was probably for the better, as some of it would need to be washed now that it had sat upon the floor.

 

“No, I haven't. And neither does orange suit you,” he replied with as much venom as he could manage. The insult floundered uselessly, mild enough that he oughtn't have bothered.

 

Haurchefant didn't rise to the bait, just smiling congenially, eyes seeming to sparkle with an amount of mirth and energy that was positively indecent at this time of morning. Which was... a few bells past dawn, according to the Chronoscope.

 

Familiarity, that's what it was. In his sleepiness and ire he had abandoned his practiced formality for his much more natural biting sarcasm, which apparently indicated to the lord that they were now close friends. It was that or the other way around... the personal level of his meddling signaling to Alphinaud that it no longer mattered how rude he was to the other man. He doubted now he could chase him away no matter how much he might want to, if for no other reason that the entire camp was under his care. He had nowhere to hide until Ishgard received him.

 

The kettle whistled. The young diplomat tried not to lurch towards it, rising instead with dignity to retrieve it and pouring for them both. And he waited, both for the tea to brew and for Lord Haurchefant to get to whatever it was he wanted to say, resolved to give away as little as possible, investment of trust be damned.

 

“I need for you to tell me what happened yesterday,” was what the lord said at last, swirling his mug in circles and watching the leaves. No, watching him, eyes darting up from the darkening liquid to peer at him intently from beneath spikes of hair the color of the oncoming storm.

 

“What did he tell you?” Alphinaud parried, or stalled, more like. He didn't just need to know how much he knew, but how much Aymeric trusted him. How much _he_ could trust him. He had no doubts he was loyal, but... this was no game.

 

The other man leaned back in his chair, mug abandoned on the table, tenting his fingertips together and casting his eyes toward the ceiling to give the subject serious thought.

 

“'Still your heathen tongue ere I cut it out and throw it to the crocodiles,' I believe. There may also have been a remark about my mother, I have a poor memory for invective.” To his credit, he managed a completely straight face for almost a minute before breaking into a disarming, lop-sided grin. Alphinaud couldn't help but laugh softly, imagining the irritation Haurchefant must have caused to drive his stoic lover to such words. Or perhaps that was what passed as friendship between them, when no-one else was around to see. A little of the tension drained from his body. He didn't feel quite as alone anymore.

 

The lord was smiling at him serenely still, sipping his tea experimentally. “What I know is this,” he continued after some thought. “I have never seen him so shaken...” a knot tightened in Alphinaud's stomach, the idea of the knight being _frightened_ both ludicrous and terrifying. “But I have also never seen him smile in such a way. When he bade me inform you that he was safe, it was... it was like the clouds parted and sunshine poured forth. He is happy. He has never been happy, not like that.”

 

Alphinaud took a small, shaky breath, not having realized his lungs had emptied themselves some moments ago. He took a sip of his tea, reminded of another time, the scent of oranges and cinnamon and wine.

 

“I believe it's a fair conclusion that you are the cause of his joy,” Haurchefant continued. “I am glad of it. Most glad. And lest you think I am here to make light of your situation, I shall say it plainly: I will do anything within my power to safeguard that happiness. I will protect you both—my friends—at any cost.” The other man's eyes burned, cool blue but warm with conviction. A smile, small and grim, determined. “Now are you going to tell me what happened, or do you need a _hug_ first?”

 

Alphinaud let his murderous gaze do the talking. The lord let his sideways grin return, and calmly picked a leaf out of his tea with long fingers. He put it in his mouth and closed his teeth around it, though he made a quick face at the bitterness. The little stem was still visible between his lips, dark as the brew and soggy, when he released it to regard the younger man calmly.

 

He supposed there wasn't a way to avoid it. He took a deep breath, experimenting with different combinations of words, weighting the possible innuendo and testing the embarrassment they would all inevitably cause.

 

Satisfied that it was the best he could do, he freed the sentence all at once. “I was seen leaving a broom closet by one of the maids. _He_ was not observed, to my knowledge.”

 

“A broom closet,” the other man repeated speculatively, popping the leaf out of his mouth again, un-chewed. He twirled it quickly by the stem before discarding it on the table. Sharp eyes turned from the leaf to the younger man, looking him over, almost looking through him for a moment. Like a viper, an arm shot out to grip his wrist, tea-stained fingers cold against his skin. Too late he realized it was the hand with the bite mark, no longer very bruised but still visible, scabs beginning to form in places.

 

“Very nice,” he said in genuine appreciation, examining both sides but refraining from touching the wound. “You did that yourself? This is better than I thought,” he mused. He held a narrow smile, full of secrets, and Alphinaud didn't want to know a single one of them. “You had best heal it, of course. Though I seem to remember you wear gloves? Mayhap it isn't an issue. Oh... perhaps you _want_ to keep it.” The edges of his lips curled further, as if they could roll up like a carpet.

 

Alphinaud snatched back his hand, cursing his sluggish reflexes, and rubbed his wrist as if to remove the other man's touch. “I'd appreciate it if you kept your speculation to yourself. I was tired yesterday.”

 

Haurchefant's eyes sparkled with momentary humor before he took another sip of tea, letting his eyes fall closed in pleasure. Then he plucked another tea leaf and regarded it coolly. “Yes, I'll bet you _were_. You should spend less time in broom cupboards if you dislike speculation into your romantic life, though. That's quite foolish.” He held it to his lips for a moment, considering it with eyes closed before drawing it into his mouth.

 

“That's what I said,” Alphinaud muttered into his cup, but it wasn't much of a defense.

 

“Ah, so it's his fault. I shall have to remind him of that. _Precious_. It's been so many years since I've seen him blush.” His speech had a muted quality to it as he spoke around the leaf, but he didn't bother removing it. Rather he seemed preoccupied by his thoughts, a sly smile creeping up the corners of his mouth and making Alphinaud feel rather unnerved.

 

There was a brief period during which the younger man made no remark, neither wanting to inquire further nor be left to the mercy of his imagination. He settled for taking a sip of his tea, fair distraction for his lips.

 

“Of course you realize it was I who taught him to kiss,” the lord said just then, pouncing on the moment and grinning like a wolf. Expressive eyes trained on him, not missing a single reaction as he coughed on the mouthful of tea and struggled not to breathe it instead of drink. It stuck in the back of his throat like bitter gravel, the only mercy that it had cooled to near body temperature on his tongue.

 

It was a moment before he could turn his attention back to the conversation, whereupon he quickly wished for another distraction. Jealousy flared before he could quite reign it in, irrational tendrils snaking around his consciousness like weeds. He breathed through his nose a few moments, ignoring the ragged burning of his lungs that signaled another cough demanded his attention.

 

“He said... no, he implied...” it sounded stupid, but in his defense he wasn't intending to say it at all. He lifted his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation, rolling his eyes at his own emotions. “Alright, you clearly want to tell me about it. Have done with it.”

 

Haurchefant extracted the tea leaf from his mouth, but didn't let it go far, poking tiny holes in it with deft movements of his teeth. “Oh, he didn't mislead you. That's all it was, shy kisses in the dark. Wandering hands perhaps... years ago, when we were young and foolish. So foolish...” and at that he let his eyes drop closed and relaxed against the chair, turning his head to the side to lean against his hand as if needing the comfort of a touch, any touch, savoring the memory and even blushing a little bit. It even seemed his voice had dropped a note or two, and suddenly the images that flashed before Alphinaud's mind's eye had an entirely different tone. It was difficult to see the man before him in quite the same way.

 

“You loved him?” He hadn't planned on asking. He had in fact planned _not_ to ask, but lately his tongue did inexplicable things.

 

“It would have been easy to love him. But...” the other man's expression was wistful, not quite mournful but with an air of sadness like morning mist on fresh grass. “I took the easy way out. We both did. We allowed ourselves to be governed by fear. We gave of ourselves what comfort we could spare, took what joy was offered, and left the rest.” The half-chewed leaf was set down on the table, saliva pooling around the edge and sealing it to the smooth-worn surface. A gesture of finality, a past that, whatever one thought of it, could not be taken back, and was useless to regret.

 

It occurred to Alphinaud that in sharing this admission, Haurchefant was not taunting him, but rather admitting a weakness. He had suspected that the man's tastes had run toward the peculiar, but this was a frank admission of guilt. There was no reason not to trust him, as he was guilty already of the very same sin.

 

The other man's gaze was different now, serious, lids half-concealing eyes still trapped in distant memory. Affectionate, as if Alphinaud were a ghost of his past, to whom he had been gifted a last goodbye. “We learned far more about ourselves than each other, of course. Such is the way of things. But your plight has suggested to me another lesson that I had missed.”

 

The younger man nodded, in a trance, unable to deny the lord anything while he looked at him like that. With such care and longing.

 

“Ser Aymeric is a man of strength and virtue. He will throw his life away in a heartbeat in service to a friend, though we might all call ourselves poorer for it. But he will not bow to any man that cannot do the same in return. You have already proven yourself a better man than I. Do not regret that you have captured his heart. Merely do all you can to keep it. And I will do all I can to support you both. The rest... is written in the Fury's will.”

 

The mention of the wroth goddess of Ishgard broke whatever hold the older man had over him, reminding him of the resentment and defiance he held toward the entire institution. No, he would not bow to the Fury's will. He would sooner bear a sword to the gates of the First Heaven and wage bloody war on the Twelve.

 

He scowled, retreating behind a mask of grim determination, but Haurchefant just grinned affectionately at him as if he were a petulant child. “You really are the cutest thing. No wonder he's so smitten.” Alphinaud tried to glare daggers at him, but as usual it made no difference. The lord fished his fingers into his cup again, pulling out another leaf and spilling some of his tea over the side to drip down his wrists. He darted out his tongue to lick a few drops off of it, causing it to melt and stick to his tongue like a piece of candy floss. It, too, disappeared into his mouth.

 

“So if you don't think he was seen, why all the fuss? Surely it hardly comes as a shock that unbelievers are capable of indiscretions. For all she knew it was some blushing maiden you were ravishing.”

 

The younger man considered for a moment, trying to ignore the sight of the dark leaf clinging to the other man's tongue. The sensual image he had painted mere minutes before left him off-balance, coloring the mad lord's movements with alternative interpretations, leading his thoughts to places he'd rather not go. “I thought perhaps you might have some insight into that,” he recalled. “The maid, she... well she reacted rather more strongly than I would have predicted. She screamed and ran away. I was half expecting to be arrested after such a display.”

 

The lord blinked owlishly at him before retrieving the leaf from his mouth, now fragmented into several pieces. Alphinaud resolved never to watch the man eat, if the mere act of drinking tea could be rendered simultaneously disgusting and provocative. He dropped the pieces on the table as if insulted by them and leaned back again, thinking. “Well I suppose she could just be righteous and innocent. Stranger things have happened.” He didn't seem terribly convinced by the suggestion. He tried again. “Perhaps she fears your retaliation?”

 

Ah. Of course. A numbing chill swept through him as he recalled the moments after the incident, how he had attempted to find her. To stop her from sounding an alarm. Even to silence her. His hand trembled and he found he no longer trusted himself to hold his half-full mug. He leaned forward to place it on the table, and stayed that way, suddenly far more comfortable leaning his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.

 

Gravity took his course, and this time, tears did flow. Just a few, and blessedly silent. He half expected the older man to carry through his threat of a hug, but he didn't move from his chair. Instead he sat down his own cup.

 

“I take it that you did consider it then?” the lord asked after a short silence, quiet with something like respect.

 

Alphinaud nodded, knocking loose another tear to slide down his chin. “I don't believe I could have hurt her. But I did consider it. If it could have saved him... but I needn't have worried so. She left me a note. My 'secret is safe,' it said. I don't believe I could have done it but... but she is innocent, a bystander, none of this is her fault...” he could feel his emotions getting out of hand, everything he had felt in the last few weeks amplifying and escaping his control. He would not show such weakness. With effort, he reigned himself in, blinking away the tears but not condescending to wipe them with his wrist like the child he no-doubt looked.

 

There was an empty space in the room, where Alphinaud was alone with his thoughts. Finally Haurchefant ventured to fill the silence. “My dear... if you had not considered it, I think I should question your devotion. What makes you a murderer is not whether you wish to protect those you love... it's how you choose to do so. You would not have harmed her. Of this I have no doubt.”

 

The younger man looked up finally, tears stilled and making his cheeks itch as they dried. He saw Haurchefant soften his expression to something like tenderness. Not pity, just empathy. It was surprisingly... tolerable.

 

“I wonder though, what she thinks your secret is, precisely,” he continued. “Have you considered speaking with the lass? I can have her reassigned somewhere if you think she could be a problem. Somewhere wagging tongues can do no harm. Do you remember what she looks like?”

 

For a moment Alphinaud was stunned that there could be such a simple solution. It was obvious now, though plenty of time had already elapsed for her to work mischief if that was her aim. Of course, it also depended on confiding in the eccentric lord, and that was something he had been determined not to do. He had known he was dependable though, from the first. He hadn't needed to hear his confession to know he would stand by them. Was he really so untrusting now, that even his most loyal allies were suspect? Or is it only men of Ishgard that he feared, blinded by their goddess? No. He had yet to confide in Tataru, he remembered with guilt. He had planned to confide in no-one at all.

 

He pushed away his shame and astonishment, trying to recall the maiden that was so brave as to think to order him about. “Short, brunette moon-keeper. I've seen her before. I don't think she means ill.”

 

“Ah, I know just the one,” the lord replied. He retrieved his tea and fished out another leaf, placing it carefully on his tongue before taking a sip and letting the tea wash over it.

 

“There's just one more order of business, then.” His speech took on the dulled quality once again, though it was still quite understandable, as if he spoke with a full mouth often. “With regard to your request for asylum. It appears I was only half correct. Your bravery during the Geomancer's storm was noted well within the Vault, but the situation has now been complicated by Aymeric's failure to apprehend the villain. Twice now he has eluded his grasp, and those who pretend to care about such things are implying it is more than accident.”

 

He stopped to frown, worrying the tea leaf against his upper lip with his tongue. Finally he retrieved it, tapping it against his cheek absently and making wet little noises as it stuck to his skin. “If he does not succeed on his next attempt, I fear that his political position will be imperiled. I have plans of my own should more open channels fall through, but, as your fortunes are... _intertwined,_ of late, you might consider offering him your help.” He finished by giving the leaf a provocative little lick and watching him with narrowed eyes, apparently now fully aware of how distracting Alphinaud was finding it. He felt immediately relieved to find that the odd man was being irritating on purpose, as the abject obliviousness that served as the alternative was improbable to a degree that had been beginning to frighten him.

 

His assistance. That... did make a certain amount of sense. He tore his eyes away from the man in front of him to drink his own tea, making a face now that it had grown tepid. The Ishgardian way for these things seemed to be military in nature, but Alphinaud was used to commanding small mercenary forces with surgical strikes. He had dismantled far larger armies with far fewer soldiers, largely by virtue of the extraordinary strength of just a few warriors.

 

“I take it he would need to strike the final blow?” This was one place he was not at a disadvantage.

 

The mad lord grinned, pleased that he was keeping pace. “Of course. It might also be wise to include a few witnesses from among his lieutenants, just in case.”

 

Alphinaud nodded in agreement, and gulped the last of his tea just to make it go away. An assortment of broken leaves stared back at him from the bottom of his cup.

 

He could not divine his future, but that did not mean he was not the master of it.

 

“Then I shall take my leave of you. I trust we have an understanding.” The lord of Camp Dragonhead dropped his final tea leaf onto the pile on the table and stood to leave, sucking on the tips of his fingers. “What do you intend to do now?”

 

He had a battle to plan, a maid to interrogate, and a friend to whom to apologize. “I am going to bathe and break my fast,” was what he said instead, intending on letting his concerns go for just a little while. His worries didn't weigh quite as heavily on his shoulders, and there was a little spark of hope burning in his chest.

 

The sly grin the lord gave in return made him suddenly apprehensive that he would insist on joining him for his bath, but to his great relief he refrained. “An excellent plan. There is no reason to fret so.” He left with an informal wave and an easy grin, and Alphinaud marveled that he had escaped the exchange without the man even once attempting to hug him. He resolved to put more faith in his friends ever after.


	10. The Interrogator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mild Haurchefant.

After his bath, Alphinaud was feeling much revived and quite becalmed. After thinking over all Haurchefant had told him (while studiously avoiding any thought of the mad lord's past with his lover—nothing would come of that speculation save jealousy and revulsion and other, more awkward feelings), he came to the conclusion that he had nothing to fear. He would take matters into his own hands, speak with Tataru and the mousy maiden, and then put in calls to his adventurer friends to orchestrate an end to the Geomancer once and for all. He had to admit, the idea of having a hand in slaying the villain that had nearly killed Aymeric had a most satisfying ring.

 

He wondered, in fact, if he should accompany the party that did the deed.

 

He quickly dismissed the idea as idle wishmongering, fully aware that his own skills would likely hold the real warriors back, possibly endanger them. Endanger his lover.

 

But on the other hand, Aymeric had required his rescue last time. The thought of letting him go alone, out of his sight, filled him with an odd pang of dread, even if he knew full well there was not much he could do to assist. And then there was the strange specter of excitement, of standing by the noble knight's side and watching him swing his beautiful blue blade, cleaving their enemies asunder with grace and skill, perhaps even wild fury. He wondered if the man ever lost control of himself on the battlefield, and what it looked like, to see his knight with a grin like death and splattered with the blood of his foes.

 

He could not recall having been excited by bloodlust before, though it pricked a vague memory he couldn't quite place. Idly he wondered if he had spent too much time in the presence of barbarians, or if Aymeric just affected him on a primal level. Something about the restrained strength of the man, he reasoned. Either way, it was making his blood run hot.

 

He had studiously avoided thinking of the other man whilst he bathed, as the baths were not precisely private. As he walked back to his room, however, a blush was creeping up on him as well as other, more irritating signs of arousal. Now that Haurchefant had blessedly gone, he could surely afford a few moments of hedonism. He had yet to recall the previous day's encounter with the attention it deserved.

 

But his room was not private. He reached it to find the door hanging open. Truly, Alphinaud knew what that ordinarily meant, but it was an odd enough occurrence at this time of morning to make his paranoia resurface, and adrenaline burned away his musings like a purifying fire. He stopped at the threshold, peering around the doorjamb to confirm. It was indeed a maid sent to clean house, but of all the luck it should happen to be _her_. He could see the swish of her narrow brown tail as she bent to drop an armful of items with a clatter. That was probably Haurchefant's little stacks of plates and cutlery.

 

It was probably Haurchefant. As soon as he'd thought the words they became true out of their original context. The insufferable man had made his first move  _for_ him as if the lord had been teaching him to play chess! The nerve of the man. Of course this had some advantages, as it might not have been seemly for him to go fishing around the servant's quarters, and Haurchefant had every right. He could of course have enlisted Tataru...

 

But she was right here already.

 

In for gil, in for gold.

 

Suddenly very thankful that he was in the habit of dressing fully after his bath, Alphinaud straightened and walked into his own room with all the dignity he could muster. He closed the door gently, not locking the bolt though he would have appreciated the added guarantee against interruption. She failed to hear him, bustling about to tend the fire now, tea leaves and ceramic castles being cleared away and the bed already made. Her short bobbed hair bounced around her jaw, drawing attention to her slender neck. She looked tiny and frail, and yet he couldn't quite shake feeling threatened by her, the one woman who could undo him and his lover with only a word to the wrong sort of person—or any person at all.

 

Alphinaud walked a little ways into the room, trying to move without conveying any threat, wanting to startle her as little as possible. “I received your message,” he said gently.

 

She didn't shriek this time, though she did panic. She turned toward him all at once, ears flat and eyes wide, and she dropped an entire armload of firewood straight to the floor. The quartered logs clattered to the ground and bounced onto her toes, and then she let out a little squeak of pain and hopped away from them, muttering “oooh, ow, ow, oooh!”

 

It was of course ridiculous, but the situation had long since lost its humor. “Are you quite alright?”

 

“Oh,” she finished, looking at him again in surprise. She was less afrighted now, in fact her primary cause of suffering seemed to be embarrassment. She put her full weight back on the injured foot to test it, wiggling her hips to emphasize the motion and causing her plain gray skirt to swish around her ankles. “Sorry 'bout that Milord. Seems I'm fine, don't ye worry 'bout me.” She gave him a cautious little grin, pointed canines and all, but managed not to look the part of the carnivore at all. In fact, the way her dark eyes darted to the door suggested that she was feeling rather more like the meal.

 

“That's... good,” he answered. He flailed mentally for a moment, trying to decide a course to proceed. “Please, won't you sit down? I believe we have a few matters to discuss.” He made no move toward the chairs, not wanting to approach her until he was certain she wouldn't bolt. Neither did she. Instead she stood awkwardly over a scattered pile of logs, eyes moving from them, to the door, to Alphinaud, to her cart by the door, then repeating the cycle.

 

Fair enough. He tried his more natural form of diplomacy. “Do you drop things whenever you're addressed, or is that a special service you provide for me alone?” He attempted to keep his voice light, but there was likely a tone of worry laced into it, moving his lips like the invisible strings of a puppet.

 

That did it. She reddened under his gaze, and he tried to smile, as foreign as it felt to him. It came out a tiny thing, and hopefully it didn't seem mocking. “No, no Milord, I just... well ye gave me quite a fright yesterday, ye see and, I feared...” She was looking anywhere in the room but at him now, eyes darting to the corners of the ceiling and even the freshly-made bed, where she scowled momentarily at a stray wrinkle.

 

“I'm sorry I scared you,” Alphinaud said seriously, suddenly afraid to hear her fear spelled out. “I won't hurt you. I just want to talk.” That was what Aymeric had said, he realized too late. He filed the thought away as quickly as he was able, consigning it to the back of his mind with the rest of his unease. “I take it Lord Haurchefant sent you?”

 

She straightened with relief, giving a little curtsy but still keeping her distance. “Yes Milord, the Master insisted that I bring ye breakfast personally. I see that ye've already taken tea,” she said with a little grimace, indicating that the lord hadn't improvised his manners merely to annoy him. Alphinaud quickly covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a quiet snicker, and the maid mimicked the gesture to emit an unladylike guffaw. The sound echoed a quick staccato beat across the stone walls, seeming to illuminate her nervousness more than her humor.

 

“The things you must put up with from him,” he said gently, only prodding a little. He felt a little odd criticizing such a loyal ally, but if it was what it took to draw her out, he would do it. And he had to admit, he was a little curious, as well as a bit peeved.

 

“Oh, sure-leh. We can always tell where he's been, he has so many nervous habits. Sometimes he'll take all the cushions off the chairs an' beds an' stack 'em on the floor. He collects all kinds of odd colors of ink fer writin' an' he's always spillin' 'em on his sleeves. Oh... I once had to clean a dried fish out of a cupboard that just wouldn't stop smellin'! We almost had to exorcise the stench!” She finally did move, now, motioning for him to sit as she retrieved his food, though her eyes never seemed to leave him.

 

“A fish? He'd stored his supper in a cupboard?”

 

“No, Milord, a raw fish, eyes an' all.” She gave another undignified laugh, though this one was closer to a giggle and she completely forgot to cover it.

 

Alphinaud almost giggled too, but at the last minute he stifled the sound and it came out more like a cough. She winked knowingly, evidently more at ease now. A tray was retrieved from her cart and set before him, stewed beans, eggs, and toast. Still she remained at attention, despite his invitation to sit. “I take it ye won't be wantin' any tea?”

 

Tea was good for the spirit, in the proper company. “Yes, if you please. I was quite unable to enjoy it earlier. Pray, pour some for yourself and take your ease. You're making me nervous.” He let her fuss with the water and the cups and the discarded firewood while he reluctantly turned to his meal. He heaped some beans onto the bread and chewed with some disdain, having learned to loathe the simple breakfast. Apparently it was a Coerthan favorite simply by virtue of their affinity for stewing things until they had lost their texture. For just once in his life, he thought, he wanted to be in charge of his own kitchen. If he had to make every meal himself it would be worth it just to avoid the foods he hated, even if all he could manage was thin soup and burnt bread.

 

Actually, it would probably have tasted a bit like this. He abandoned the plan and put more effort into his chewing.

 

At length the kettle whistled, and the maid poured the tea for both of them. She sat daintily on the chair as if she were afraid of soiling it with her presence, and looked at him a little nervously.

 

First things, he supposed. He swallowed his instinct for anonymity, assuring himself that it was far too late for that. He at least determined to leave off his family name, beginning to feel as if his recent actions were dragging it through the mud. Any more mistakes and he wouldn't be surprised if his grandfather decided to haunt him. “My name is Alphinaud. I'm something of a political refugee. What may I call you?”

 

“Junh, Milord, it's a pleasure to meet ye formalleh. The Master speaks very fondly of ye. We're all on strict orders to cater to yer every whim!” She blew on her tea a bit and relaxed into the chair, slowly seeming to forget that she had been uncomfortable on it, but still looking alert and wary.

 

“I see,” he said, not entirely surprised. A question occurred to him and it seemed suddenly much more interesting than the ones he really needed to ask. “And is there anyone else to whom he's extended this privilege?” Alphinaud turned the corner of his mouth into a sly grin to emphasize his intent. Gossip, after all, seemed to be the key to the maiden's confidence. It was strictly business.

 

Junh blushed prettily, bringing her hand to her mouth again in dubious imitation of a proper lady. “Well, let's see. There's yer lady friend,” she began, counting on her fingers and biting her lip to ponder. Alphinaud had to think for a moment to realize she meant Tataru and not a romantic interest. He hoped to gods she didn't mistake Tataru for his lover, but he wasn't sure he would be able to properly set her aright. “There's his family of course, 'specially his brothers. And... that 'venturer friend of yers, the one who's always hangin' 'round? He's  _very_ insistent that we keep a room ready at  _all_ times.”

 

Alphinaud's grin widened, his suspicion confirmed. She gave him a wicked little wink in agreement.

 

But she continued. “And... there's that handsome knight. The one ye rescued. Ser...” she seemed to be fumbling for a name.

 

“Aymeric,” he finished for her, probably a little too quickly, and too late he realized that she was watching him more closely than she should have been, with a little too much nerve for it to be casual. Of course he would know the name of the man he had rescued, but what level of familiarity was really appropriate?

 

The Miqo'te flashed her teeth at him in a wide smile, and this time she really did look like a carnivore. “Aye, that's the one. I've never seen anythin' like it, the way ye took off after him, with no hope o' returnin'. Except that ye did! Everyone was singin' their praises to the Fury, but I know the truth.”

 

Coeurl-like eyes narrowed in amusement, and Alphinaud's breath caught on nothing, as if he were once again choking on the frigid air of the storm. He kept his voice neutral and his expression blank. “Which is?” Carefully he took another bite of beans, hoping that dealing with it would mask any signs of his emotions when she answered.

 

“It was blind luck. Beggin' Milord's pardon, but ye should be dead an' the gods've nothin' to do with it bein' otherwise.” The beans failed to mask his surprise, instead sticking in his throat like glue and adding to his grimace. She laughed at him, a loud piercing sound, before soothing her voice with her tea. He had been so sure of what she was going to say that she'd caught him unprepared merely by  _not_ saying it. Alphinaud was beginning to feel he was losing his touch... if he'd ever had it to begin with.

 

Carefully, he smoothed over his shock with gentle amusement. “Those are bold words for a woman of Ishgard.”

 

She made a quick face of distaste. “I'm a foreigner here, ain't no better than an unbeliever. It's expected of me as long as I don't say a word against the Fury, an' I keep my nose to the floor.” She looked away a little nervously though, chewed her lip again with those strange pointed teeth as if she didn't really believe it. Uneasiness seemed to fill the room again, and she sat up straighter as if the air up there were easier to breathe. Suddenly her eyes shot from the safety of her cup to look straight into Alphinaud's own, a deep chestnut that made him long for the Twelveswood. “I meant it, ye know. I won't never tell. I know what it's like to live 'twixt the Witchdrop and the Inquisitor's axe. An' serving women ain't exactly a valued commodity much o' the time.”

 

Of course. He leaned back into his chair, shocked by the cruelty of it but not as surprised as he wished. Junh had been afraid not because she feared  _him_ , but because servants were inherently disposable, and he fought back a surge of bile at having briefly considered her so. She was not disposable. She was a person of great dignity and worth and he hated himself for thinking to harm her.

 

He let out a shaky sigh and forged onward, swallowing bile and guilt both. “So it was an unthinking reaction? I thought for a moment you'd seen a voidsent.”

 

“Er, yes. Though... I can see why ye'd have... reason... to...” she trailed off again, biting her lips and looking at all the things in the room that weren't Elezen. This time she made to wipe at the table where a stack of tea leaves had lain, though it looked as though she'd already cleaned it quite adequately.

 

“I must know, what precisely do you think my secret  _is?_ ” He looked at her with seriousness, though he hoped he wasn't too stern.

 

She met his eyes, but still ducked her head a bit as if expecting a scolding. “Well, ye admit ye have a secret, so... supposin' there's that.” She took a sip of tea and remained silent, scanning the room.

 

Alphinaud felt the familiar sensation of warmth on his cheeks, which signaled not a blush but that he had unconsciously buried his face in his hands in exasperation. He could forgive her for discretion, of course, as it was the very quality he counted on her to exercise. He tried again. “I believe you, really I do. I just want to know what you think you're protecting. You might be wrong after all... or you might be right. I must know what I am facing.” He hoped if she were wrong he wouldn't have to correct her. He was fairly certain that his luck was not that good.

 

She looked at him for a few moments, squinting a little as she sized him up. Her expression became piercing and appraising, and Alphinaud wondered what he'd gotten himself into. It was like watching a puffer fish inflate, only he sensed she was far more deadly. “I should've brought somethin' stronger fer the tea. Aye, I'll tell ye.” She grimaced and sipped at it anyway, making a sharp face of dread as if imagining the ways her loose tongue could come back to bite her. “Well to begin with, ye were in a broom closet. That's pretty damned incriminatin'.” She fixed him with a pointed stare as if daring him to challenge the point.

 

“What if I had need of a broom?” This time he did flush a little, and the wry smile that crawled along the edge of his lip was at his own expense.

 

“Ye know as well as I do that nobody  _locks_ themselves into a dark closet for pure reasons. You knew that when ye did it, in fact, and whatever ye were up to took time enough to finish with.” Junh reclined in the chair with her mug dangling casually from a limp wrist, elbows propped on the arms of the chair. With the exception of the nervous way she chewed on her lip, she looked for all the world like an investigator, waiting for him to respond to her accusations as if she'd accused him of wielding a candlestick with malice.

 

He rather misliked the way it was going, but he would follow the trail of crumbs to the end. It was imperative he know how much danger he had truly invited. “Alright, so let's suppose I'll admit my reasons for being there weren't... pure as you say.”

 

Her act broke immediately and she blushed behind her cup, making him regret the admission as well as wonder why she had been unable to avoid it until then, speaking so frankly before. “Sorry, Milord, ye'r just so...” she blushed a little harder and waved her hand a little at him, waving away his attention and making him blush a little in return, in some kind of sympathetic reflex that he didn't fully understand.

 

He cleared his throat, resolved to ignore the interruption and refusing to think about his inexplicable reaction. “What does that say about whom I was with? Perhaps it was with someone of no consequence.” A sip of tea allowed him to pretend, for a moment, that the warmth in his cheeks was from the soothing drink.

 

The maiden answered his question with no more fuss, and he was grateful. She kept her gaze turned away demurely, the subject matter having crossed the bounds of propriety long ago. “Broom closets are for servants. An' I mean fer the tumblin' too. No resident or guest would use one when they've a room to use instead. An' even if someone took a fanceh to one of us smallfolk, we're smart enough to know the way talk travels and how to avoid it. An' that means usin' yer own bed, as ye've the privilege of havin' one.”

 

“That's an astute observation,” he said, a little astonished by the depth of her analysis. She met his eyes again, flashing a shy little grin at his complement.

 

“It's common knowledge. Ye don't last long up here without pickin' up a few pointers. And that brings me to the final point. It's what ye would have done yerself, if'n ye didn't have some overridin' reason not to use yer own bed, possibly overridin' yer own rational sense besides. An' that would be... because of who ye was with. If they was, say, in so much danger just from the dalliance that ye were afraid of leavin' any evidence at all, such that even people seein' 'em enter yer room had ye spooked.”

 

Yes, he thought, that was the long and short of it. He noticed suddenly how tense he felt, listening to her winnow closer and closer to the secret that could mean Aymeric's death, but he took a deep breath and let it go. He believed he could trust Junh. It didn't stop him from wishing she'd get to the point and stop torturing him with it. “For the record, it wasn't my idea.” But he didn't deny it, and she grinned like she'd caught a fairy in her teeth.

 

“Aye, then, seems I'm right. And the only one ye've been acquainted with much recently who fits that description, besides the Master, who'd just take ye to his bed without any fuss, I'm sure...” Alphinaud blushed even more furiously at that suggestion, suddenly glad he had an adventurer to handle Haurchefant for him. The maid continued as if she had said nothing remarkable. “It's obviously that knight of yers. It's no secret ye're so attached to him ye've taken leave of any smarts ye once possessed.”

 

Fortunately, Alphinaud was already as embarrassed as he could possibly be.

 

“Hard to blame ye though,” she continued through his silence. His discomfort was apparently no obstacle to conversation. “He's easily the most 'andsome man in the north. Even with those funny ears o' yers, he's a looker. Of course, ye ain't half bad yerself, he could definitely do worse. Ye make a lovely couple, aye, very pretteh the both of ye... I know a few who'd give more than gil--”

 

Alphinaud had been wrong. He was definitely more embarrassed now. He felt the blush even in his ears, burning as if they'd been scalded by the implication lying beneath her words. At the last moment it simmered over into anger and he cut her off. “I don't believe that's any of your business. Pray do not speak of him that way, or I daresay you shall regret it.” The cool command had snuck back into his voice without even willing it, following his anger like a mountain stream. It was almost a relief to know he still had the ability.

 

Junh had seemed to be on the verge of saying something completely scandalous, but she obeyed the order and blushed like a beet behind her clawed hand. “Beggin' yer pardon, Milord, that was indecent. I'm not accustomed to speakin' with any but servants and smallfolk. Please fergive me.”

 

“Nevertheless, I appreciate your forthright analysis.” The young Elezen cleared his throat and tried to retain some of his professional demeanor, but his cheeks still prickled with warmth. “It's a sound conclusion.” He spent a moment lost in thought, unconsciously bringing his hand to his lips and running his teeth along the length of his forefinger, weighing the woman's sympathy and sincerity as he rested his head against his other hand and his bones against the chair. His breakfast looked back at him accusingly, unfinished and unloved.

 

He could at least make the best of it. Women had a way about them with these things, it seemed, and the maiden was remarkably sharp. “Tell me,” he began, swallowing the feeling that he never enjoyed her answers to his questions. “By your reckoning, how likely is it that others might reach the same conclusion?”

 

She hummed, tilting her head to the side and rapping her fist gently against her chin. Her eyes wandered around the ceiling again, another sweep for cobwebs that seemed to hone in briefly on a spot in the middle distance. Evidently she didn't feel the need to address it, returning her attention to him almost immediately. “The highborn, they've no imagination. Won't even think of it as long as ye make sure to keep from doin' anythin' _stupid_ again.”

 

He bore the criticism with dignity and only a slight wince.

 

“And assumin' that nobody starts to _talk_. And by 'body', I mean us servin' folk, those of us who're _smart_ enough to guess what you've got goin' between the sheets. Fortunately the gossip ain't goin' that way right now, I can confirm it personalleh. An' I'll do my damndest to keep it that way, thank ye.” The face she made was so fierce he could have carved it into a mask to frighten children. Her lips were sealed closed but turned into a steep curving frown, with only the tips of her canines poking through. He nodded unsteadily, hoping to reassure at least one of them that he believed her.

 

She relaxed her expression slightly, and spoke the rest like ripping a bandage from a scabbed wound. Steadily, without mercy, but for his own good. “But the inquisitors... gods help ye if they even see ye in the same room.”

 

His blood ran cold, confirming what he already knew. They trod on dangerous ground.

 

She was staring at him again, frowning still but eying him with a sharp edge, as if she were measuring him up and her findings fell short. “An' I suppose ye need help on yer end, too. Aye, ye don't know the first thing about clandestine dallyin', do ye?” She narrowed her eyes and flashed a quick cutting grin, once again on the prowl. “I bet he's even yer first...”

 

Instead of blushing, he twitched and felt his lip curl into an unfamiliar snarl. He hadn't the Miqo'te's canines but the steel in his gaze was still enough to make her flinch. He had thought Haurchefant had been an uncomfortable ally to have, but this beggared belief. “If you have advice, I would hear it, though I warn that my patience is wearing thin.”

 

She giggled again, hiding again behind her hand but looking a trifle apologetic. “Of course, Milord, so sorry. But I have to ask... at the risk of... intrudin' too much...”

 

He raised one eyebrow and glared at her, cool and unimpressed and probably a bit petulant. He took a long drink of his tea, several degrees cooler than he liked it but nice enough. Tea was familiar and safe, or would have been if it didn't remind him of Haurchefant just now. It was if the man were toying with him still, reaching through time and drooling all over his tea leaves.

 

“D'ye love him?”

 

He blinked, and a little burst of fireworks went off in his chest, making it suddenly harder to breathe. Alphinaud knew as soon as the shock wore that he had the final answer to Aymeric's question.

 

“Yes.” He wasn't looking at her anymore, stuck instead staring into space in surprise at how easily the word came from his lips. Something heavy inside of him seemed to burst free and simply float away. It was like vertigo in reverse, making him feel light but steady in his chair.

 

That didn't mean that the knight loved him in return, of course. But he was certainly willing to risk an awful lot to be with him. Neither of them had cared about the consequences... neither at the gate nor in the cupboard. Yes, he thought. That was love, or so much like it that it made no matter.

 

“Aye. Then I'll help ye. I'm a fool fer romance.” And for some reason he couldn't quite place, her feral grin didn't frighten him at all.

 

 

 

 

It was after luncheon when he finally made his way to the Intercessory. Junh had exhausted his mind so thoroughly that he had wandered to the kitchens directly after their business had concluded, eating with renewed interest as soon as he could verify that no beans were involved in the meal.

 

He now felt invigorated, as if his cares had been dropped at the wayside and left in the snow. Far from a danger to him, her service would prove invaluable. In the end, all that had been required of him was a short missive, penned and given directly into the maid's hands. The only way in which it could be used to incriminate him was one he full well intended. If she kept her end of the bargain, he knew he would be hiring her away from Haurchefant. Her indecency and barbs were well worth her cunning, and he had precious few in his employ whom he could trust.

 

Speaking of. He had promised Tataru an explanation, and she would receive it.

 

He had rather hoped to do so in private, however. Alphinaud's face fell visibly when he opened the Intercessory door to behold the Lord Haurchefant, resplendent in his orange-lined chainmail and wild blue hair. He was sitting in Aymeric's chair behind the desk and scrawling wildly on a veritable nest of parchment in livid green ink.

 

“Ah, I wondered when you'd arrive,” said the lord, looking up at him from beneath his tussled bangs before returning to his scribbles. “That took rather longer than I expected. You haven't done anything I wouldn't do, I trust?”

 

The younger man blanched only slightly at the implication. When he responded, it was with bite but no venom. “Of course not, you insufferable cad. Though I assure you I would never use your behavior as a standard for my own actions. I have rather more decency.”

 

A short, high-pitched gasp informed him of Tataru's location and emotional state. She was sitting in a chair across the desk, unremarked due to her height and relative inoffensiveness. Hands were thrown over her mouth, thoroughly scandalized, face turning something like the maroon of her feathered cap. Perhaps he oughtn't have let all of his annoyance free at once, but it was too late. And it had been quite satisfying.

 

Haurchefant merely stopped the scratching of his quill, and gave Alphinaud his full attention, a gentle smile on his lips that shewed clearly in his expressive aqua eyes.

 

“It's alright, Tataru,” Alphinaud said, though he aimed his words at the older man, ire having lapsed into a playful teasing tone. “I suspect he's quite used to it. We've apparently become rather _close_ of late.”

 

“Mutual interests, yes,” the mad lord murmured warmly, placing a green-stained finger to his lips in a motion of secrecy. His smile curled into an evil smirk. “Has the young lady been initiated into the mysteries of our order, or shall we continue speaking in riddles and jibes purely to annoy her?”

 

Alphinaud resisted the urge to hit him then, reminding himself that he knew people who could do the job much better. The man had a point though. “I had rather hoped to have some privacy, as this is a rather delicate matter.” Tataru was looking at him with those big lavender eyes, an air of good humor and a touch of relief on her ever-cheerful features. She was apparently unable to keep from grinning at the lord's antics... or possibly his. He smiled back, somewhat sheepishly.

 

“By all means then, don't let me stop you.” But instead of leaving, Haurchefant merely went back to his scratching, not even writing now but drawing large, looping shapes on a blank page.

 

Of course it was too much to ask. Alphinaud rolled his eyes and sat in another chair, relieved at least that the other man already knew what he was about to reveal, and had gotten most of his teasing done with.

 

And he sat, grinding his teeth and staring into space. Words didn't seem to wish to come forth, and she only looked at him curiously for some moments.

 

“Well?” she finally prompted, cocking her head to the side like a curious opo-opo.

  
“Just tell her,” Haurchefant scowled, as if it were a matter of no import. The day's weather perhaps, or a recipe for rolanberry pie.

 

Alphinaud coughed, ostensibly to clear his throat but in actuality to prompt his vocal apparatus to action.

 

“I have been... _seeing_... Ser Aymeric.” He had hoped to word it neutrally enough not to show any emotion, but instead he felt his face catch fire with raw shame. He suddenly felt like a harlot, the admission making him viscerally guilty of actions that had seemed so right at the time. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, ducking his face behind his hand once again. “Dear gods...”

 

“You _what_!? You can't be serious!” He could see her staring at him with incredulity from betwixt the shield of his fingers, looking between him and Haurchefant and back again. A glance toward the older man confirmed that he was grinning rakishly, but it was obvious there was no joke behind his teeth. “You _are_ serious. You really mean to say that you've been... you _are_... you're with... he's a _man_ for Thal's sake!”

 

“I am _quite_ aware of that,” he said flatly, body flashing hot just from the words, not even having to resort to memories. “And yes. Completely serious. Absolutely, _deadly_ serious.” He demonstrated the fact with a hard scowl and a steady gaze, even through the ever-present blush.

 

The Lalafel was a chatterbox, a fussbudget, and a busybody all at once. Words escaped her in a rush, like a kettle that had boiled over. “So this is what you've been keeping from me? 'The raven has flown,' and all that? And after you gave me such a scolding for telling him you hadn't eaten, the nerve! I thought you said you needed him to respect your strength, and now you're... you're... fraternizing! What if someone finds out?” Mounting worry escaped her expressive face to tangle her fingers in a knot.

 

Alphinaud saw red for a moment, accompanied by an unexpected flash of vertigo as anger overtook him. “If we are found out then he will _die_. Our diplomatic fortunes can burn for all the difference it makes.” She appeared quite shocked at the outburst, even a little frightened. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for a moment, calming himself and remembering she meant no ill. When he spoke again it was with the voice of one made helpless by the winds of fate. “Truly, 'twas you who caused it. It was then that he began to pursue me, though I doubt he truly had it in mind. Regardless, it's done, and I would have it no other way.”

 

An odd sensation behind his eyes made him look to Haurchefant. The man was regarding him queerly, chin resting on his hands. The smile was gone now, his eyes narrowed searchingly, as if he could look right through the younger Elezen and peer into his heart. It was almost a silent question, one he knew the answer to. Alphinaud nodded slowly. They shared a solemn moment, in which he made to hide nothing, feeling almost naked beneath the lord's gaze. The older man wasn't accusing him, he slowly realized, but actually impressed at the level of his devotion. Like the sunrise, the lord's lunatic grin returned, lighting his entire face and making even his shoulders twitch with joyful energy.

 

The tension in the room seemed to evaporate as the morning fog. Alphinaud's skin almost prickled with the cool relief, and Tataru smiled sweetly at him, perhaps understanding something of the silent exchange.

 

“Alright,” she said, her large eyes going a little misty and the edges of her smile crinkling with feeling. “I'm happy for you. Love is... love is a good thing. It doesn't matter whom it's for. As long as you don't go charging off to your death again, that is! I was beginning to fear you were losing your mind for a bit there.”

 

There was a bout of snickering from behind the desk. But Alphinaud ignored it and gave the Lalafel a little smile, warm and relieved. “Thank you. I'm sorry for keeping it from you. I have had problems with trust lately, and the stakes are quite high. But you deserve my confidence, and I should have been more forthright.”

 

“Charming,” said Haurchefant, dismissive with his words but not his affectionate expression. “How fares our wayward maid, then?” He looked like a coeurl with cream, languid and harmless now as he slouched in his chair, shuffling through his mess of paper.

 

The young diplomat thought for a moment at how to answer. “She makes the fifth member of our conspiracy,” he replied, and Haurchefant scowled. “Quite on her own initiative, I might add. She's too clever by half.”

 

A glance to the side confirmed that Tataru was following the conversation with veiled curiosity, but content to keep her nose out of it. Unlike Haurchefant, the woman had discretion, and he was thankful for it.

 

“I see. Is it quite safe for her to be here, then?” A blot of ink smeared across the other man's hand and he licked at it with his tongue, turning it green and making him wince at whatever flavor the ink carried. Then he licked it a second time, removing most of the remainder of the smudge.

 

“... Yes,” Alphinaud replied, hesitating more due to the sight than the surety of his answer. “It carries some risk, but I believe her trustworthy. More to the point, I believe she can be of some help.” And that was all he was willing to say about it.

 

Deliberately ignoring the question forming on the lord's raised brow, he changed the subject with as much subtlety as a goobbuey in the garden. “What's all this about, exactly?” He indicated the papers on the desk with a twirl of his finger, encompassing what now made up several only slightly disorderly piles.

 

Haurchefant gave him a little grin and let the subject drop. Evidently he believed the younger man had embarrassed himself enough for now. “Intelligence,” he replied, the word sticky with enthusiasm.

 

“Is that so,” Alphinaud couldn't help muttering.

 

The lord narrowed his eyes in warning but didn't let it stop him. “This is all I know about the Geomancer and his movements. Aymeric has provided some of it to me directly, the rest comes from my own contacts and the camp's scouts.” At the latter he gestured to one of the piles of documents, written with ordinary black ink and composed in neat parallel lines.

 

“And... those?” Tataru pointed to a smaller pile with the large, abstract pictures Haurchefant had recently drawn, and Alphinaud was not entirely sure he wanted to know.

 

“Maps.”

 

“Ah,” she said with a wince. Of course he wouldn't simply bring out a real map. It would have been so much more accurate and detailed, after all. Perhaps even informative.

 

Haurchefant winked at him, reminding him that he never quite knew when the man was being daft on purpose. “Send out your calls to your tame adventurers, Master Leveilleur. Loathe as I am to admit it, I would feel much more at ease should Ser Aymeric have the protection of the Warrior of Light at his back.” He flashed a tight frown, his conflict warring across his face in full view. Alphinaud could only nod, glad that the man wouldn't fight him on the issue.

 

“I have sent for more up-to-date intelligence already, which should arrive within a few days at most. We can begin as soon as all the players have gathered and we have confirmed the location.” There was steel now in his eyes, making them suddenly chill and deep as a frozen lake, and his broad mouth was so devoid of humor that it seemed to belong to another. This was the face Lord Haurchefant de Foretemps shewed to those who harmed the ones he loved.

 

“Make ready.”

 

“I fully intend to,” replied Alphinaud, nodding to Tataru, who seemed to share his grim resolve. Quill and linkpearl were his true weapons, and he would use them to slay the man who had hurt his lover. Not even the stones of the earth and the wind in the sky would stop him.


	11. The Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Aymeric! And Haurchefant! In the same room! And... they are not kissing each-other. I have failed as a pervert and a human being.

The plan was made and set. He was confident in his assessment, and confident in Haurchefant's judgment as well. They had poured over every detail, arguing over the significance and making notes in margins until Alphinaud knew enough about the Geomancer and his movements to be tried for espionage. Somewhere along the line, the lord had quite forgotten to tease him, and he had begun to grow used to his odd habits in turn. True to Junh's report, the edge of the odd man's sleeve had soon turned a sickly brown from the green ink mixing with the orange fabric, patches here and there retaining their vivid color and looking for all the world like someone had been sick. His logic, however, had been unimpeachable, even if his cartography resembled the work of a child learning to ink with his fingers, or the scrawlings of a demented sylph.

 

After that, all there was for him was to wait.

 

Two days passed in the blink of an eye, Alphinaud finding his mind quite occupied with planning and preparation. It was a simple enough strategy, but adventurers were notoriously difficult to pin down, and they had time enough to send out another scouting expedition to confirm before Aymeric arrived. Most importantly, he wished to give the enemy no indication they were planning to strike. He made sure patrols carried on as usual, but suggested that one tarry overlong in the vicinity of Natalan's gate. With luck, the heretics would still think them on the wrong track.

 

He had put his more personal thoughts completely out of his mind. The only worry he had space for was the upcoming battle, and he trusted Junh well enough to let the matter sit for a time. Only at night did he allow his mind to wander, the brief time he spent between the sheets but before he was borne away to uneasy dreams. He thought only then of his time with the knight, and the time he hoped to spend with him soon.

 

The rest of his day, his thoughts were focused solely on how best to protect him.

 

The second sun after Haurchefant's surprisingly edifying briefing, he rose to Junh's knock at his door. She had taken to bringing him breakfast, leaving out the beans and bringing an extra helping of toast and rich butter. This morning she gave him a meaningful wink as she left him to his meal, bustling about the room and tidying even where it wasn't necessary.

 

She wasn't so bad, really. Their arrangement required that he spend more time in her presence, but she was a servant first and foremost and rarely broke character to tease him. Evidently this was one of those times. She waited for him to finish and then walked with him into the courtyard, before laying a hand at his arm. He stopped without thinking, giving her license and opportunity to dart closer and kiss his cheek. Warmth bloomed where her lips had touched him, embarrassment coming naturally to him now like a rainbow after a brief spring shower.

 

“Good luck,” she had whispered, and then scurried away, somehow looking simultaneously like a startled mouse and a coeurl that had caught one.

 

That was part of the arrangement too, he reminded himself through a scowl of irritation. Requesting her as his personal retainer during his stay at Camp Dragonhead had two purposes, the second being to inspire gossip of the right sort. He had a hard time shaking the feeling that there was something else afoot, however.

 

So when he entered the Intercessory, his first thought had been that he was a fool.

 

It took some moments for the thought to appear, though, all sense having justifiably fled in the presence of his lover. Ser Aymeric occupied the chair behind the large desk, once again looking like a king at court, the electrum pauldrons on his cape shining like pale gold in the light of the fire. The knight noticed him immediately, turning half to face the door and widening his eyes just enough to notice. He may have seen a brief flare of the man's nostrils, but that was it, Aymeric once again turning away and blinking his regal eyes with deliberate care.

 

Alphinaud was not nearly so composed. He stood dumbly just within the door, and only became aware of his own gaping mouth and flushed cheeks when it was pointed out to him, in the form of Haurchefant's high-pitched giggle. The sound caused his thoughts to coalesce like clouds out of empty air, and he realized that he'd been an idiot not to expect it. Though to be fair, he _had_ expected it... he had expected someone to have the decency to inform him that the keystone of his engineering had arrived. Evidently decency had been abandoned in favor of entertainment.

 

“You'll need to work on that,” confirmed the lord, sitting in a chair nearby, and Alphinaud threw his coat over the man's face while he tried to work out his own reactions. He settled on irritation, sitting himself beside Tataru with an undignified huff. The small woman grinned up at him in welcome, patting his leg sympathetically. Haurchefant merely disentangled himself from the coat and laid it at his back, as if his entire aim had been to acquire a soft cushion for the spartan chair and Alphinaud had simply played into his hand.

 

Aymeric looked to the lord with an expression of dry amusement, similar to his blank diplomatic face but for a small sparkle in his eyes. “To be fair, you have had far longer practice at being a shameless deviant.”

 

Haurchefant fairly beamed with delight. “And you an ashamed one. It's good to finally see you wear it properly. Debauchery suits you quite well.” The glare the knight sent him seemed to rebound from him ineffectually, and he soon gave up and glanced toward Alphinaud. The change was tiny, but he thought he could see the faint beginnings of a smile. So this was indeed friendship between the two mismatched men. The youngest couldn't help but return a soft smile, suddenly much more at ease.

 

It had been ages, he realized, since he'd seen the commander in public, and the change was startling. The knight had been so open with him of late that he almost seemed a different person. Now, it was the same inscrutable poker face as when they had negotiated, but he had the key to decoding the man's feelings. So this was what it meant to form inappropriate professional relationships. For better or worse, they would never be truly objective again with regards to each-other. He would always know Aymeric's true emotional state, and the knight would always know just how to startle every thought from his head, likely without anyone else in the room being the wiser.

 

Except, perhaps, in the case of Haurchefant. The man was giggling indecently again, and this time Tataru joined in to laugh gently as well. All at his expense, as was every joke, of late. He should find a belled hat and play the fool properly. At least then he might feel some sense of job satisfaction.

 

When his ire had properly molded his features into the professionalism the task required, he addressed the man behind the desk, who sat lording over their assembled maps and notes as if they were his kingdom. This was the man whose life depended on him, once again. A familiar sense of calm settled about him, though it was not borne of panic.

 

It was confidence. “Has Lord Haurchefant briefed you?”

 

Aymeric frowned lightly, seeming to think a little too much and a little too openly. “Yes,” he began, and only once the word had passed his lips did Alphinaud realize his mistake. He could see the playfulness behind his lover's steel gaze and narrow lips. It was sharp like a blade, wit honed for combat through years of sparring with the madman at his side.

 

“To summarize: the lady Tataru has forgiven you your secrecy and perversion both.” The Lalafel gasped, having readied her quill in preparation for the meeting, and suddenly finding herself a weapon in a rather indecent war. Her teeth could be seen now, though it was a gil toss as to whether it would become a grin or a grimace.

 

“Lord Haurchefant has managed, against all odds and prior indication, not to molest you...”

 

“I would never!” came the predictable objection, though the lord's open-mouthed wonder nearly suggested he was now considering it. Evidently deciding against it, he threw himself back against Alphinaud's coat, placed his hands over his heart in mock pain, and declared, “Aymeric, you wound me, truly!”

 

The knight continued undaunted, calmly laying out the facts as if they were the movements of the Dragonstar. “... and you have spilled your trove of secrets to a mysterious benefactress, of unproven loyalty and uncertain use. Have I missed anything?” In this matter there was a question behind the jest, and Alphinaud thought that perhaps he might have been inclined to answer it, were he not so very annoyed.

 

“You left out the _biting_ ,” said Haurchefant, his relish at the final word fairly dripping with sin.

 

“Yes, I rather intended to! Though I appreciate your report nonetheless. It was most edifying.” At this Aymeric regarded the lord with a secret sort of smile, and now they were conspirators rather than rivals, conspiring to make him blush. It certainly worked, though Tataru was doing enough of it that he perhaps shouldn't have bothered.

 

But he was not to be cowed into submission. Alphinaud had not been preparing for tea and cake, and he would not be mocked, not without extracting his own ponze of flesh. Instead he counterattacked, with a coldness in his words that surprised even him. “... I rather meant on the battle to come. As you mention it, though, I would correct you on several points.” His deep blue eyes narrowed slightly. He could not be rid of his youthful features or slight build, but when he hardened his gaze leaders of nations bent to listen. Aymeric responded immediately. The wry smile he had shared with Haurchefant vanished, hidden behind his careful mask, with only a hint of eagerness peeking through the cracks.

 

The man was excited, and in the back of his mind he noted the fact, stored it for use later, should the time become opportune. He did not allow it to distract his mind, but his body listened, heart beating a trifle faster, just as eager now for the chase.

 

“Junh has dug up our secrets quite without my help, unless of course you count your brilliant plan to 'talk' in a broom cupboard as my doing.” Aymeric flinched, almost too quickly to see, but the corner of his mouth seemed to turn up into the tiniest beginning of a smile, as though he were enjoying being temporarily bested. It pleased Haurchefant to no end, of course, causing him to snicker loudly at the knight's expense. Tataru threw her hand over her mouth in her dramatic fashion, and he realized he had forgotten that he had left that detail out in his earlier confession. An acceptable casualty, and with Haurchefant around she was guaranteed to find out sooner or later, anyhow. “Her services are my own concern, and I will not enumerate them. Lord Haurchefant may pay her wage, but—with his leave, I might add—she is now my retainer, and propriety dictates that my secrets are hers to keep until I release her from the obligation myself.”

 

Haurchefant blinked at him, like an owl that had discovered that mice had wings. “Is that so? I had not expected you to take advantage of my hospitality in such a way. If as you say she knows so much already, I suppose that is a prudent step to take, though I wish you had spoken to me first. But... are you are keeping her close as a friend, or as an enemy? Should her lips loosen, I can do aught after the fact.”

 

“Clearly.” It felt oddly invigorating  _not_ to address the matter further. Instead Alphinaud addressed his lover again. “On the second point, you should know that not only can this oaf not keep  _his_ tongue still, he cannot govern his own hands. I have also been informed of your past  _sins_ , as you put it, quite without my prompting. I make mention of this only because he seems to abhor the keeping of secrets, and I cannot bear to see him suffer.” At this he turned his boyish face to the side, opening his eyes wide in a gesture of innocence and care that was quite foreign to him. It almost certainly looked as insincere as he felt.

 

This was enough to crack Aymeric's facade, and what lay beneath was a warm chuckle as he ducked his head and blushed behind a hand. “Mercy. I certainly hope he hasn't traumatized you overmuch.” The sight made the younger man pause briefly, eyelashes fluttering as he thrilled a little in the victory. It was a strange, heady feeling, made moreso by the shy glance the man returned, for him alone.

 

But Haurchefant pounced then, carrying the torch anew and setting Alphinaud's short-lived advantage to flame. “Oh my, you're absolutely right. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Master Alphinaud! I had quite forgotten to report how adorable you look in those little pyjamas. You really should see them, Aymeric, he's just  _precious_ . So sweet he'll make your teeth hurt, really!”

 

“Oh? Indeed.” The shy smile morphed by degrees into one of interest, nearly as indecent as one of the lord's own. He rested his chin on his hands and made to listen eagerly. “I think perhaps that I should like to see that.”

 

The lord made a wild speculative motion, casting his eyes around broadly as if sky-fishing for his own thoughts. It did not bode well. “Though come to think... I don't imagine he'll be getting much use out of them with you around. A pity...” This jibe was at both of them, but Aymeric seemed to feel it first. He made a choking sound that turned into a cough, blushing again and trying to rally a glare to his defense.

 

Alphinaud, too, suffered, his face once again buried in his hands to spare him a look to Tataru. “Matron, give me strength. Does he ever stop?”

 

The knight answered tightly, as if he were trying to strangle himself in lieu of his friend. “Only when violence is applied. Liberally. Might I remind you that there is a lady in the room?” Said lady gave a little squeak, and now Alphinaud  _had_ to look, finding her red as a boiled beet and trying to vanish into her chair behind a sheaf of parchment.

 

There was a short silence in which a shadow seemed to pass overhead, the air going still and charged as though lightning were to strike. Lord Haurchefant grinned knowingly, as if he had been saving his final blow and only now judged the time was right. He looked straight at Aymeric, and leaned back in his chair to drape an ankle over his knee, arms crossed casually over his chest. He had relaxed because the battle was over, and he had already won.

 

“Since when have you cared about _ladies_?”

 

And the knight knew he had lost, even his half-hearted glare an act of surrender. “Dear Goddess, I hate you,” he muttered, running a hand through his black curls as he, too, leaned back in his chair. His shoulders finally relaxed, the rest hard-earned through defeat.

 

Rather than accept his surrender, Haurchefant returned a look of shock. Unlike his mummery of the last few minutes, it seemed genuine, though he laughed through his reply. “But Aymeric... you know my heart is pledged to another!”

 

The commander's eyes widened, also genuinely surprised. He seemed to blanch at first, then flush considerably. Alphinaud was stunned to observe it, knowing only that some secret code had been exchanged, some meaning only the two fast friends could decipher. It made his earlier victory seem paltry, weak tea to the bitter black coffee of whatever Haurchefant held over the other man's head. In that moment he envied their connection. Hatred and love were remarkably similar. It almost seemed that they knew that on some deep level, and had still found a way to court through their words.

 

The result of the overture was a rattling of a drawer, Aymeric baring his teeth in a fierce snarl as he hurled something at the lord's head. A clatter of glass was heard, and vivid red was splattered along the far wall. It oozed down the rough stone in gory rivulets, and Alphinaud had to look twice just to be sure that Haurchefant was uninjured. He was laughing in shrill delight, with no sign of stopping.

 

The normally stoic knight's composure had snapped, and he had thrown the first object at hand, easily hard enough to injure. The unfortunate weapon was a vial of ink, and the young diplomat shuddered to wonder what damage it might have done should it have struck true.

 

Haurchefant wiped a tear from his eye as his laughter calmed. “Fine, fine, I've had my fill of fun. That was my best dalamud, you should know. Master Alphinaud, if you would be so kind? I believe we have an execution to attend.” He flashed his teeth quickly enough to cut, and this grin was not for Aymeric. It was for the Geomancer.

 

Alphinaud breathed one long, cleansing breath, the ink on the wall once again taking on grim significance. Suddenly it was an easy thing to put all other thoughts from his mind. “First, I wish to confirm the target of attack.” He stood and spoke with the cool command that well exceeded his years, and it mattered not that he hadn't the height to back it up. “Thanks to Lord Haurchefant's intelligence, we have determined the most probable location to be the Ogre's Belly.” He motioned toward the proper map he'd had Tataru fetch, days earlier. It was marked with three wooden figures in the east, one each in Providence Point, the gates of Natalan, and the entrance of a cave labeled the Ogre's Belly. In true Ishgardian style, each wooden figure was carved with the head and wings of a dragon, as if no other enemy could warrant their attention, even with Garuda and an army of Ixal at their door.

 

“Recent scouting reports and aetherometer readings indicate no change since the last assault. The strongest point of aetheric disturbance emanates from here,” he said, pointing to a point just north of Natalan, where a small group of Ixal had built huts beyond its gates. And then he paused, as if to invite the knight to challenge the point. He knew full well that he appeared to have contradicted himself.

 

Aymeric was looking at him with some skepticism, though he was not so foolish as to miss the obvious bait. And so he objected, but without challenge, merely curiosity. A coeurl batting at a mouse, though he knew he would not catch it. “We have the same data, though not quite as recent. It still seems to indicate Natalan. We never managed to rule it out, though I must admit it seems an odd location for a den of heretics, even assuming some unholy alliance. The Belly would seem to make more sense... if it weren't for our instrumentation. I have been assured that it is _most_ reliable.”

 

This was expected, and Alphinaud smiled a thin slice of satisfaction. He had made the same objection himself, albeit far more vigorously. “Lord Haurchefant, if you please?” He would give credit where credit was due, if only because he was curious to see the knight's reaction.

 

“That is because you are looking at the wrong map,” the lord said with a long, winding smile. There was no longer play in his voice, but he was satisfied with himself all the same. He placed one of his own loopy drawings carefully atop the map on the table, the ink shimmering a metallic green. They were not drawn quite to the same scale, but it was a near enough thing. One could now see that the clumsy circles and hashed lines in the lower corner corresponded to a portion of the Ixal settlement lying just without their gates, the area where the aetherometer readings had been reported strongest. It was the rest of the map that was most arresting, making Aymeric blink his astonishment openly. Rather than the edge of a mountain and a vague label over the mouth of the cave, Haurchefant had drawn the interior of the Belly with respect to the Natalan settlement. The depths of the cave wound directly beneath, corresponding perfectly with the readings the scouts had reported, both before and after the storm.

 

“I see,” said Aymeric, obviously impressed with the both of them, though something like fury was shimmering below the surface. “I stand corrected. Evidently none of the See's analysts have bothered to ask a local about the geology.” Evidently someone would pay for the mistake.

 

Alphinaud gave him a wan smile, but it was short-lived. He did not relish the conclusion either. He rather wished they could instead take on the entire Ixal tribe. “As you can see, the Belly has but a single point of egress, a blind turn before the cave opens up like the den of a mother bear. It is vaulted and large enough for any manner of beast or worse to lie in wait. Though patrols give us no cause to think they suspect an attack, we must assume they have ward or watcher, and that they will know we have arrived before we even see within. In short, though I am certain we have the correct location, we are nonetheless most certainly walking into a trap, one made all the more deadly because the villains will have their backs to the wall and nothing left to lose.” He let the conclusion hang in the air, not a point of debate but a solid fact. Even Tataru nodded, murmuring displeasure as unobtrusively as she could manage.

 

But he would not allow himself to ponder failure. “Our error before was one of subtlety. As Lord Haurchefant has correctly surmised, a smaller group may reach its target with much greater stealth and speed. We need only reach the Belly's mouth undetected to avoid another storm. And where smaller numbers would ordinarily mean a weakened force, we are bound by no such constraints. We go with a party of four adventurers, including the vaunted Warrior of Light.”

 

Now the lord was no longer on the same page, twitching around to stare at him with a puzzled frown. For a moment Alphinaud thought he had gone back on his promise to allow the adventurer's aid. But no, he realized, he had forgotten to be careful with his phrasing. Rather than allow himself to regret the lapse, he steeled his gaze and prepared for the assault.

 

It was not long in coming, and Haurchefant's tone was one of suspicion, thinly veiled with politeness and custard tarts. “Pardon me, Master Alphinaud, but I believe I misheard you. We? Who is _we_?”

 

“Your hearing is fine, it is your sense that is addled.” He spoke the insult perfunctorily, more to maintain his sense of control than to truly wound. “I will be accompanying Ser Aymeric. With the addition of two of his trusted, we will make the second party of four.” He said it as if he were laying out the depth of the snowfall and the direction of the wind. Calmly, meeting the eyes of both men in turn, laying out facts that could not be changed.

 

Tataru could be heard to gasp in horror, though it hardly concerned him. As expected, it was Aymeric who raised the first objection. His voice was low enough to bleed into a growl, almost difficult to hear over the crackle of the fire. “No. That is preposterous, I will not allow it.” The strength of the man's gaze was nothing short of spectacular. It was as if ice could catch fire and burn cold instead of hot. The youth found it difficult to meet his deathly glare, but something made him persist. He met it head on, letting the challenge linger in the air for a moment, staring him down with intense determination to match.

 

When he answered, it was with the knowledge that he had the strength to face Aymeric at his most fearsome, and his heart swelled with unexpected pride. He had wondered if he would be forced to concede, but he knew now that he would not back down. Instead he spoke the words with dignity and clarity, so sure and still that one might have had better luck budging an oak. “... And I will not allow you to go without my protection.”

 

The next voice to object was small and overflowing with anxiety. “Please, Alphinaud, reconsider! You've never done anything like this. Our friends will surely protect him, they've never failed us before!”

 

Alphinaud turned his iron glare on Tataru with a pang of dim regret. Whatever she saw in his expression quieted her immediately, and she looked down at her wringing knuckles to escape him.

 

The brief reprieve was enough for the knight to rally his defense. His voice was softer now, but stung all the more for it. Having withstood the man's fury, he needed now weather his care. “Alphinaud. Pray do not be foolish, you are no warrior.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then added even more quietly, “I could not bear to see you hurt.”

 

Of course he could not. Because Alphinaud felt precisely the same, only—only he _had_ seen Aymeric hurt, had nearly lost him forever. He had not expected this to be easy, but he had hoped, at least, that the other man would understand the strength of his will. He clenched his teeth and his knuckles both, feelings leaping the bounds of his mind like a minecart jumping its tracks.

 

He could contain it no longer. His resolve unfurled like a banner, suddenly tearing free in the Coerthan wind. “I will not yield!” He spoke only to Aymeric now, gripping the corner of the desk and seeing aught but the man he loved. The man flinched, wide-eyed, startled and more by the fire in his eyes and the ferocity of his words. “You required my aid last time. You would not be with us had I not flown to your side and healed your wounds. I will not commend you to the care of another and leave your fate to chance! If I must send you into danger, I will at least do everything in my power to keep you safe, and if I must risk myself to do so then I will consider it a price well-payed!”

 

When he had finished, chest heaving with the force of his emotions, no-one ventured to contradict him. The silence rang heavily like a brass bell, the effect of his words playing loudly in their ears though there was no further sound.

 

It was Haurchefant that finally spoke, long after the echo of his fury had died and the licking of the flames in the hearth was the only sound to be heard.

 

“Aymeric. Let him protect you. He is no child.” It was only then that Alphinaud realized that the strange man had been the only one not to object... at least not after he had made his intent clearly known. He was filled with gratitude then, and perhaps even affection. Haurchefant had accepted his indecent relationship, and even his love for the knight with nary a question. Now the man was accepting his lunatic plan to charge headlong into battle, and Alphinaud nearly wanted to hug him for joy.

 

He opted to nod his thanks, the lord accepting the gesture with a sad smile.

 

Aymeric just looked at them both as if they had declared they were to be wed. It was half murderous glare and half astonishment, and his cheeks tightened and twitched at the contradiction. Finally he closed his eyes and shook his head to clear away the confusion, fixing Alphinaud with a gaze that was nearly blank of all emotion. “Why?”

 

He thought he could detect the smallest note of fear, and he regretted being the one who caused it. Almost enough to change his mind.

 

Almost. Alphinaud put aside the turmoil they were both feeling, treasuring it up in his heart to feel another day. Instead he called upon his reason, unleashing it like a spell from his grimoire. “As you may have surmised, the goal of this operation is for _you_ to apprehend or execute the Geomancer. Our adventurer friends are here as support, to remove any obstacles and keep the way cleared for our retreat. This is why I have divided us into two parties. If the cur has half the resourcefulness and power that he has displayed thus far, we will _need_ their overwhelming strength to clear the way for us. As our mission objectives differ, it is highly likely that our groups will become separated. Your team must needs be capable of operating on its own, in a highly dangerous situation, full of ambiguity and like to change at a moment's notice.”

 

“So what you mean to say,” said the knight dangerously, “is that I require a healer. Surely you are aware that there are others upon whom I may prevail.” His cold appraisal was so familiar it took him a moment to place the memory. Aymeric had always been able to see right through his words to the heart of the situation. It was just as when he had threatened to withhold the cooperation of the alliance in the defense of Ishgard, and the commander had called his bluff as easily as snuffing out a candle.

 

Only this time, Alphinaud was not quite finished. “No,” he countered calmly, not flinching from Aymeric's stone gaze. The narrow-eyed malice was difficult to bear, but he was growing hardened to it. He was not sure if it was better or worse to know that it was directed at him only because he was putting himself in danger. “What you require is a tactician.”

 

He would have elaborated, but it was highly satisfying to make a point that proved itself true the moment it was uttered. Aymeric seemed to grasp this as well, absorbing the words twice in quick succession and looking at him in wonder and horror both.

 

Haurchefant moved about in the corner of his vision, and he thought he could hear the man smile.

 

The Lord Commander sighed, then, folding his hands before him and closing his eyes in resignation. His voice was tired, aggrieved. “I see... then I suppose I have no choice. Is there aught else?”

 

It occurred to Alphinaud then that if he hadn't made the point in such a dramatic fashion, he might never have prevailed. It was a narrow victory, a near miss, and he had needed both his will and his cleverness to obtain it. Much like the battle ahead. He had proven himself worthy, if only just. He only wished that his victory did not mean his knight would worry so.  
  


It would not distract him. “No. Not until our adventurers arrive. They have sent word that it will likely be on the morrow. I trust your men are at the ready?”

 

“Of course. I shall brief them presently.” When icy-blue eyes fluttered open again to regard him, it was difficult to sort out the emotions. But before the younger man could grasp them, Aymeric was on his feet, having taken Alphinaud's words as a dismissal whether he had intended them or not. He walked toward the door with his aetherial grace, cape swishing around his armored boots and making him seem even more out of reach.

 

This wasn't how their reunion was supposed to go. Suddenly there were a thousand things he needed to tell him, and every one of them required privacy. Haurchefant seemed to think so too, catching his eye and raising his brows, daring him to act before he lost the chance. Once Aymeric left their sanctuary, he had no guarantee he would be able to speak to him safely before the battle. Not unless he acted now.

 

“Wait.” He was out of his chair before Aymeric had quite reached the door, rushing across the room with sudden urgency. The knight turned to regard him, a small smile on his lips that betrayed no surprise, only a little relief. Alphinaud barely restrained himself from simply tumbling into his arms. Instead he slowed and gave a shy glance backwards, before stepping far closer to the knight than could ever be considered decent.

 

“Tataru, my dear, might you show me those cards of yours?” Haurchefant's words echoed behind him against the stone, no longer a matter of his concern. It mattered only that there would be a moment of calm, when they could pretend it was only them, with no others to interfere. Aymeric gathered him close, and his cloak seemed to follow and wrap him up, away from the eyes of his friends and concealing them both in their own world.

 

“Of c-course! Have you seen my Lightning? Pride of my collection! Just look at those numbers!” Bless her, Tataru only stammered a little, speaking quietly and trying to avert her attention from the scene by the door.

 

Alphinaud had wound his arms around the knight's neck, clinging hard enough to pull the other man closer to his level. Close enough to tip his chin upward, stand on his toes and whisper directly into the man's ear. His cheeks burned bright, in shyness rather than ardor, and he spoke so softly even he could barely hear it. “Tonight, after supper, whenever you are free of your obligations. Come to my room. Don't knock, just enter.”

 

“Numbers?” Haurchefant was still mumbling bemusedly, putting on a good game of distracting Tataru. “I suppose you could call them that. They are _very_ nice, I agree.”

 

Aymeric gasped deeply at his words, clutching at him suddenly as if he would otherwise drown. It was another moment before he fully reacted, pulling away and catching him in a bruising kiss. There was no shy searching or gentle caress, only desperate need. One of the knight's hands settled on the back of his neck to urge him forward, and he too could only pull and cling, as if it were impossible for them to be close enough to satisfy. At the moment that was quite true, both of them being fully clothed, the phantom of activities to come driving them mad with anticipation.

 

It took some time for the fury of Aymeric's tongue to be sated, though Alphinaud made no objections. He felt dimly that there was some reason to resist, but he could not place it, and made no effort to obey. The knight's lust was his, as well, and he allowed himself to be claimed. A space without thought, only the sounds of their pleasure and the sensations that weren't enough. He could not help a quiet moan or two, unable to even break away to gasp for air for some minutes, too occupied by his lover's tongue and the leg that pressed against his hips.

 

When it ended at last, he sighed softly and settled against the knight's chest, relishing the warmth that bled through the fabric, no armor being there to keep them apart.

 

And then the knight's lips were lowered to his ear, and he heard a faint whisper in turn. “By your command,” he said breathlessly, and then he was gone, leaving a waft of cold air to embrace him instead.

 

He thought he saw the expression on the knight's face as he had left. It was no smirk nor teasing grin. His lips were parted slightly and he, too, was blushing softly, taking care not to look directly at him. When he had whispered those words, Aymeric had been affected as much as he.

 

All Alphinaud could do then was fall forward against the door once it had closed, trying to will his erection away and his breathing under control.

 

“I see,” he heard Haurchefant say, a little louder than necessary. “And what are the numbers _for_ , again?” And it was then he realized that neither of his friends had spoken for several minutes. He couldn't leave the Intercessory fast enough, and merely hoped the chill air would be enough to compose him.

 

 

 

 

When Alphinaud returned to his room, in the gloaming of the early evening, he found that Junh had been there. A bottle of wine and a covered loaf were sitting on his table, glasses at the ready. It was no great surprise that she knew his plans, as he was following her advice precisely, but it was a thoughtful gesture nonetheless. Just now though, he had a lot on his mind, and the two empty glasses reminded him of the fact. He endeavored to break their symbolism, and filled one for himself. There he sat by the fire, and lost himself in his thoughts.

 

He had bathed and dressed for the occasion, anxiety filling his belly and making him lose track of his hunger completely. He could not place what made him feel such unease. Was it Aymeric's worry at their battle plan? He discounted that fairly quickly. The knight had forgiven him already, if that kiss were anything to judge by, and he felt no guilt at joining him in battle when the man was perpetually in danger himself. No, his anxiousness only seemed to surface when he pondered the night ahead.

 

When it came down to it, he realized, he was frightened.

 

It was precisely what he wanted, of course. He had explicitly asked for it: an evening with his lover, no interruptions, no prying eyes, no fear that someone would happen upon the evidence and tear his knight away. They could do anything they wanted together. It was a thrilling thought, making his heart race and his whole body flush with heat. But it frightened him all the same.

 

Not because he didn't know what he wanted to do, but rather because he did.

 

He recalled their first time together, sipping his wine slowly enough that the glass would likely last the night. He let the shrill burst of flavor pass, preferring the dark numbing aftertaste to sit with him like a companion to his thoughts. That day, in the cave, he had held no fear save for Aymeric's life. Once he was safe, there was no hesitation or concern. Only the rush of experience, the joy of discovery, and his complete surprise to be so wholly captivated by the man. When the opportunity had presented itself, he had accepted the kiss without thought and pressed for more. But... there was a moment, he realized, when he had said no. He did not allow the knight to touch him, and instead opted to take the offensive. His attack was fearless, yes, but he had refused to receive.

 

It was natural, at the time. There was no shame in shyness or inexperience, and neither had thought it strange. He had simply not felt ready, and when the knight had accepted the boundary without any question, it had made him feel... safe, and cared for.

 

The memory still stirred warmth within him, and he wrapped his arm about himself in subconscious desire for comfort. His free hand traced his upper arm, and the sensation was curiously sensual. He was hardly used to the brush of contact on his own skin, his arms and palms ordinarily being covered by his clothes in a very predictable way. Now he reveled in the illusion that the soft caress was not his own, and smiled the soft secret smile of one who knew they were in love.

 

Their second time together was much like the first, in two important respects. One, it was a surprise. Unlike now, there was no planning or forethought or deep gazing into anyone's navel. Aymeric had been gone, and he had no idea where their relationship had stood. His appearance out of a closet like some night phantasm had been a shock to say the least. And that brought him to the second point. As with the storm, he had been afraid that he would never see the man again. It was a different sort of fear, for he would have gladly taken Aymeric's safety and left the relationship if given the choice. But it had still been a tremendous relief when the man had whispered his question into the dark, and he had known that they would be unable to stay away from each-other, no matter what rational sense might dictate.

 

And what they had done afterwards had flowed naturally from that, he supposed. But he remembered, there was fear then. Not just that they would be discovered—as they were, it happened, though it seemed to have worked out alright. No, there had been something else there, some nameless thing pressing against his mind when Aymeric had dropped to his knees and he had known what the man had wanted to do.

 

It still thrilled him to remember, still made his blood hot. He had known that Aymeric had wanted to please him. But the reality had been exquisite.

 

But it had taken effort, he remembered, to let himself go and allow the man to touch him. He had been afraid, but he had trusted. And he had felt like he was losing himself somehow, like he was falling away into nothing and might never make his way back. It was exquisite, but it was frightening.

 

The thing he desired to do most had somehow become the thing he had feared. Somehow, for some reason, he was afraid to submit.

 

It was an unpleasant realization, but a victory nonetheless. Alphinaud celebrated by taking another small sip of his wine, letting it roll across his tongue and unfold its myriad flavors one-by-one, like unpacking a crate of exotic fruit. Then he set the glass down on the table and gathered his bare feet beneath him in the armchair, turning sideways to nestle into a corner of the cushion. He let his eyes close and continued to think, aware that he was letting the supper bell pass entirely by him and not caring in the least. There was always bread should he want it later. Bread, wine, and Aymeric.

 

He wanted him. And he wanted to be possessed by him. He knew little of the ways of such things, his sparse knowledge of the matters of the night being almost entirely inapplicable to relations between men. But he had an idea of what it might entail. He was certain it would hurt, and not sure whether he would enjoy it at all. But surely it must be at least somewhat enjoyable, or it wouldn't be done?

 

If he didn't like it, Aymeric would not persist. He was certain of that. But he wanted to like it. And he wanted to give himself to the man, see him come undone, know that he was the cause of it. He wanted to be cast adrift in the sea of devotion, and know that he belonged, truly, to another.

 

If the thought scared him, then he would simply need to conquer his fear. After the argument over his battle plans earlier, he nearly felt that he could overcome anything. He would master himself as he had mastered Aymeric's objections.

 

It was the last thing he thought before he fell asleep, floating on the warmth from the fire and the kiss of wine. He would master himself and his lover, both.


	12. The Innocent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content. Like for serious.

Darkness hung like a death shroud over Camp Dragonhead, barely repelled by the signal fires and torches that made effort to turn night into day. The evening was young, not quite the hour for witchery, but the superstitious minds of men of Ishgard were never easy as long as the stars shone forth. Stars were portents of dread and doom, augurs of ill fate. Any manner of evil deed could be concealed under the cloak of night. Any manner of depravity, or sin.

 

Alphinaud no longer believed in sin, as it happened. Which was well, as he planned to commit a great many sins this night. And like the best criminals, he would have an accomplice to his misdeeds.

 

His accomplice was staring at him, now. Waiting silently, like an assassin who had found his mark and waited only for the time to strike.

 

Alphinaud stirred slowly from his slumber. He was a little sore and stiff from having crumpled into a corner of the plush armchair, but he had slept restfully. It was as if the trials to come had been surmounted already, and he had nothing left about which to worry. When he opened his youthful blue eyes, they fixed immediately on the thief that had stolen into his chamber under the mantle of night. And he smiled.

 

“You could have awoken me, you know,” he said, voice still sluggish from sleep. He twisted around in the chair to sit properly, arching his spine and throwing his arms over his head to grip the chair's back and stretch languidly. It was a beautiful feeling, decadent, every muscle in his slight torso giving a warm chime of greeting. He hardly remembered having taken time to truly enjoy such a simple pleasure. Not recently. Not since his house of cards had come crashing down.

 

The other man ignored the complaint, taking it as a rhetorical point and of no concern. He had also ignored his chair, opting to shove aside the bread and wine and sit on the low table directly before the younger man. He cut a dark silhouette before the fire, a man composed of shadow and sinister implication. It took some time for Alphinaud's eyes to adjust to the glare enough to see his lover's features, watching him with heavy, veiled eyes and a subtle smile that even he could not read.

 

He tried again, unable to muster any irritation just now. There were better things on the agenda than pouting. “How long have you been there?”

 

Ser Aymeric judged the question worthy of a response, if only just. “Hmm. Half a glass, perhaps.” He swirled the wine glass in his hand and frowned at it as if he were reading the phase of the moon, and Alphinaud noted that its mate sat empty beside the bottle. Empty and clean. It was his own glass from which the man sipped, and he was torn between concluding his knight to be deliberately provocative, or merely efficient. Regardless, provocative it was, a small mark of ownership that the younger man felt happy to concede. He did, after all, plan to offer far more than wine.

 

The commander's pale eyes fell on him again, somehow simultaneously intense and soft. It was almost a sin in itself, the way the man looked over him, and Alphinaud stretched his limbs again under his gaze merely because it added to the tally of their misdeeds.

 

Aymeric returned a low, amused rumble as he watched, missing nothing with his hawkish eyes. “My comments as to your attire were intended in jest. I did not expect you to humor them, though I count myself... most fortunate that you have,” he said. There was a dark hush in his voice, though Alphinaud did not think it for fear of discovery. “Haurchefant was quite right. You are... a sight to behold.” He smiled, but it was full of shared mischief rather than the lord's mock, even if both were colored with prurient delight. He did not restrain his eyes from wandering hungrily, nor conceal his interest in the sight.

 

And well that he didn't. It was half the reason that he had chosen to wear his too-small pyjamas, guessing from Haurchefant's delight and Aymeric's interest that it might spark his lover's imagination. He was pleased to have been right. With his knight's heated gaze on him, he hardly remembered that he had been nervous. Instead he felt empowered, the master of his lover's desires.

 

The other half was practicality. “I thought it prudent,” Alphinaud said lightly, the ghost of a smirk passing across his face. He leaned forward to take the glass from the other man's hand, as he had seemed to have forgotten his interest in it. Their fingers brushed briefly, causing Aymeric's notice to redirect to his hand, then his pouting lips. “It is far easier to remove, after all.”

 

Aymeric could make no reply save for a low growl, and now he could see the man's teeth bared darkly, nearly a snarl. But he was not goaded into action, as Alphinaud had expected. Absently, he took a sip of wine, interested more in the knight's attention to the movement than the long silence of the drink. He was still being watched with a predatory fascination. He could not begin to understand why the wolf had not swept forward to claim its meal, for it was entirely clear that he had nothing else on his mind.

 

Instead, the older man placed his palms on the table behind him, leaning back with a little stretch of his spine, and continued to watch him with unconcealed lust. His head leaned back enough to expose his throat, flashing pale in contrast to the dark clothing he wore. Whether it was an intentional display or not, it was almost as if the knight were making a counter-offer. Alphinaud let his own gaze flash over him, appreciating anew the beauty and grace he held, pleased to see the tightness of the man's trousers matched the fervor restrained in half-lidded eyes.

 

For a space neither man spoke. It was something of a battle of wills, and yes, Alphinaud wanted to respond. It would have been simple to rush forward and take what he wanted. Aymeric would deny him nothing, that much had been clear since their first encounter. But what he truly wanted could not be taken. He needed to be claimed, and for that, he would need to outlast the man's patience, wear him thin and break his will until he was broken in turn.

 

A thin shudder of fear passed through him. He could scarce tell it from anticipation, save for the coldness in his belly. But it was similar enough that it did not dampen his desire, only fused into his resolve and bolstered his courage.

 

Perhaps the other man noticed... or perhaps he finally broke. He released a reedy sigh from betwixt his lips, wet and warm and singing of some manner of pleasure. As if in defeat, he let his head fall forward over his chest, dark hair trailing over his eyes and concealing them in wry shadow. “I have answered your summons,” he said. His voice was as dark and lusty as his gaze had been, though he still carried his restraint. “I await your command.”

 

It was not a surrender, but a counterattack. Sweet Menphina in the Sixth Heaven, but Alphinaud was tempted. He had been unable, before, to watch the man please himself, in the darkness of that fated closet. He imagined whispering an order, knowing full well his knight would obey. He imagined watching him unbutton those black trousers with a blush to match the fire, eyes lowered with shame and excitement as he gripped his own cock. He thought of lips parted to pleasure and eyes squeezed shut, frightened and ashamed and ecstatic and demeaned. Would he put on a show for him? Or would he try to hide, try to resist the onslaught of pleasure made twice as forbidden for bringing it upon himself? The thought of what he would look like when he finally spilled into his hand had the younger man blushing instantly, uncomfortably hard himself and no longer certain what he wanted to do about it.

 

No, he thought, shaking his head suddenly to clear the sweet vision from his unfocused eyes, fighting hard to remember his moorings. He would remain steadfast. He had made a plan for battle, and he would see it through, no matter the guileful words of his foe.

 

Quickly, Alphinaud gulped the remainder of his wine. It fortified his courage and distracted his senses, the rush of alcohol stinging his throat and sounding shrill as beaten brass. It was an act of disrespect, but it drew the other man's attention. Aymeric's sharp eyes narrowed and cleared, sensing a decision had been made and needing only to hear the words perched on the younger man's tongue.

 

The glass was discarded, set upon the floor rather than the table, forgotten as soon as it left his fingers and left to mourn its usefulness. He did not forget his fear, only held it close. It was vibrant and cool, a trembling thing as a willow in the wind. He did not forget his fear, only caressed it as a lover, and whispered softly into its ear.

 

And so it was that the tactician gave his order.

 

“Take me,” he said. Aymeric drew an involuntary gasp, eyes widening slightly as if he had not expected that precise answer. Before he could react, Alphinaud pressed on, as if the words would poison him if he failed to whisper them all. His face burned with the exertion, as though from a fever. “Possess me... Tame me... Make me yours. And...”

 

The knight was moving now, the wolf springing upon him with such a snarl as to make it seem like the last sight he might see. But he was drawn instead into his embrace, clumsily but with strength enough that it made no matter. Lifted out of the chair and held aloft to be crushed against a warm chest, where he could hear the man grunt with the exertion of the sudden action.

 

He was aware of movement, of the world spinning while he stayed fast in place, held steady by the giant that protected him. He had to struggle to collect himself enough to finish his sentence, but finish he must. He unburied his face from the rich fabric that ensnared his senses, flailing until he caught at the knight's neck and held fast. The man stopped for a still breath, and he whispered upward at the curious eyes that peered down at him in the gloom. “And when you have finished... stay with me until the dawn.”

 

The soft lips that he was lifted to meet were worlds away from the lust that seemed to be consuming them. It was a short reprieve, tender enough to make him want to sob, speaking of emotions they were both too busy to give name to. A promise.

 

Whatever their frenzied, clandestine relationship could have been called, it was certain that they cared for each-other. Alphinaud felt no surprise at the fact, just a sensation of steadiness. It was like a conjurer had once described the feeling of communing with the earth. There was believing things to be true, and knowing them for facts. Feeling them as steadily as the beat of his own heart was something entirely different.

 

As it happened, though, they frequently had other things on their minds. Almost as soon as the sweet kiss was begun, it was ended. Aymeric tipped him unceremoniously onto his bed, where he landed on all-fours like a coeurl that had been tossed into the air.

 

Aymeric did not allow him the time to recover his footing. He steadied one armored knee on the bed and grabbed at the younger man, pulling him by the hips until his back was to the knight's chest. It was an odd position to find himself in, fully-clothed but prone, the taller man bending over him possessively and pressing against him in a manner _most_ suggestive.

 

Quite against his will, Alphinaud felt a spike of fear travel through him, and his own shuddering breath betrayed him. He went icily still in the man's hold, gritting his teeth and waiting for the emotion to pass. Aymeric, too, stilled his actions, perhaps reacting to some invisible signal. Without the threat of movement, the heat pressed against his back became reassuring, simply an embrace.

 

At length he felt bold fingers trace along his neck. The touch made him shudder, too close, too vulnerable. He leaned his head backwards, instinctively shying away, whereupon he found a hot breath in his ear. “Alphinaud...” there was a note of pleading there, almost a whinge, that made his insides turn to vague mush and reminded his body that he _wanted_. “Pray do not force yourself. Allow me to please you, anything you wish. Only  say the word. _Please_ ,” he urged, the last word finishing in a whimper, and he could feel that note of desperation express itself as firm pressure against his arse. Aymeric was attempting a remarkable amount of restraint, but an evening of watching and waiting had nearly broken him. He was now subtly rubbing himself against the younger man, and Alphinaud could not help but respond in kind. He arched his back against his lover, pushing backwards and straightening until he could sit up against his chest. He could feel the effort it was taking the knight to simply _breathe_ , and still he shewed restraint. Dizzy and numb with emotion, the young Elezen lay his head back against his companion's shoulder, parting his lips and turning toward a kiss that he simply trusted would occur.

 

It did. Aymeric was clutching him now as he pressed with his hips, one hand seemingly afraid to pass beyond the edge of his short blue shirt, the other grasping his thigh as if to anchor himself through a storm. Alphinaud stretched backwards in a similar manner as he had earlier in his chair, hooking his hands around his knight's neck to arch into his embrace. Drawing the man to him, pressing backwards and reassuring him that it was all what he wanted, even if he wasn't quite certain himself. He expressed himself with his lips, pushing insistently against his lover's tongue, reveling in the taste and sighing with pleasure at the heat pressing against him from behind. He answered with his body, responding to the slight undulations of the knight's hips with small, shy backward thrusts of his own, daring and suggestive and seeming to fill his lungs with heavy desire. But when he drew back moments later, it was with a faint tremor and a hesitant gaze.

 

“I will not allow my fear to stop me from claiming what I want,” he said quietly, his lashes fluttering in uncertainty as he looked over the taller man's face. “Nor should you.” Aymeric seemed frozen in place, regarding him in turn as if he didn't quite believe that he was truly there, perhaps some figment or night-demon sent to tempt him to carnal dreams.

 

A quick kiss was placed to the bridge of his nose, before the taller man leaned close to nuzzle against the spot with his own. “You needn't rush so. But... I will not disobey you.” The knight blushed as he said it, his face heating quickly enough for Alphinaud to _feel_ so near to his own skin, and it was as if his mere obedience were an admission of some deep secret. “Just promise that you shall tell me if there is aught amiss.”

 

He supposed he could agree to that compromise, and found that in so doing a small weight was lifted from his heart. “You have my word. And... you have  _me_ .” He finished the declaration with a defiant smirk, ill-accustomed to showing such weakness and needing to goad the man to action. In action, all hesitance could be forgotten. It was a simple thing to do now, needing only a few words to prompt the knight to grind against him with one final growl of need before he was shoved forward onto the bed to sprawl, bereft of dignity and shame both.

 

With an indignant huff, Alphinaud wiggled around onto his side to watch, wrapping his arms around his chest and curling into the slightly-mussed blanket. Rather than following him, the knight had sat upon the bed's edge to work at his own clothing, resolutely refusing to look at the pale-haired man whom he would soon make his own. Alphinaud would ordinarily have felt the need to assist, but just now the inactivity suited him. Meekness was part of the costume, he told himself, and he intended to play his role to perfection.

 

Patience was a barbed rose. Apprehension once again morphed into anticipation, coiling in his belly as a simmering heat and making him restless. “You would truly do anything I asked of you,” he asked to fill the space between them, breathing oddly slave to the sounds of metal and fabric under the knight's hurried fingers. It was always safest to ask the questions to which he already knew the answer, and something about Aymeric's insistence on the fact made him wish to press for more. It was like an itch in the back of his mind, the politician in him sensing a deeper truth to be ferreted out, grabbed between his teeth and shaken.

 

There was an odd sound, the spring of clockwork as a metal clasp slipped and rebounded from its owner's grasp. Aymeric swore succinctly under his breath, making Alphinaud smile at the secret lapse. He realized he quite liked it when the older man swore. It was as if his mask had slipped, just for a moment, and he could see the fallible man beneath the noble facade. He and he alone.

 

The circumstances under which he had first driven the man to swear may also have had something to do with the fascination.

 

But no words followed the declaration, merely a backward glance. The knight regarded him in something like guilty startlement, lifting his hand absently to his mouth as if he could not remember why he did so. A thin trickle of blood was beading along the pad of his thumb, and before it could reach its destination Alphinaud wriggled forward and waylaid it, bringing it down to his own lips instead. He darted out to claim the appendage with his tongue, tasting blood now instead of wine, copper and tang with long after-notes of sweat and dust to finish. Aymeric did not struggle, staring in apparent shock as he drew it further into his mouth, sucking and licking as if by doing so he could move the man to new heights of pleasure.

 

It may nearly have worked. Slowly the knight's eyes slid low, and his head dipped with a gasp of wet surprise. Instead of answering a question long forgotten, a quiet groan escaped his lips, so soft the younger man could have sworn it was a touch rather than a sound. “You cannot possibly know what it is that you do,” Aymeric gasped. That plaintive note was back, or had never left. In truth, he did know: it was a sweet torture, for them both. At length, Alphinaud allowed him the use of his hand, though he trailed his tongue out after it as if it were protesting his own decision.

 

There could be no doubt that the dark-haired man was utterly in his thrall. It was a most satisfying conclusion. His lover quickly raked his eyes over Alphinaud's prone form, taking rather than merely looking, indicating with thoughts out-loud that he returned to his work only with great reluctance. Then his focus was returned to his unruly sabotons, his thoughts quiet and still once again. But the question had not, evidently, been forgotten.

 

Aymeric spoke gently as he moved, as if he were watching a feather fall from the sky, hesitant to change its course even as he whispered to it. “If you are asking whether I would submit to you...” he seemed to trail off for a moment, stilling again even after a boot was removed and left unwanted on the floor. Alphinaud could see his mouth move silently in profile, a listless play of lips and teeth in pantomime of nothing. Finally he found his voice. “Then yes. Anything.” The admission seemed to leave him bereft of breath, blushing faintly and looking side-wise at the younger man as if unsure. As if he, too, needed to be pushed beyond some boundary, but could not yet even give name to it.

 

Then he shook his head and removed his other boot, as if nothing had been said at all. There was no longer a tremor in his voice when he continued, just a cool growl under-ridden with subtle, chocolate-smooth lust. “Though if you wish to have me instead, I'm afraid I would much prefer to show you the method than tell you.”

 

Alphinaud fought back mild surprise at the response. He had not precisely intended that interpretation of his question, though he had to admit that if it was good for the gander, it might be good for the goose. It was not something he had thought much about, in too much haste to be the one taken. Now that the proposal had been set on the table, in full view and acknowledgement of both parties, he found himself distracted by visions of possibilities previously ignored. Now, he wanted for a stick with which to beat them back.

 

It barely occurred to him that, whatever the commander had been shy about, this was evidently not it.

 

“It was quite enough to hear it told,” the knight complained as if he were remarking on the lord's habits at tea-time. “While I am grateful to Haurchefant's knowledge and friendship, I don't think I shall ever recover from the mortification. I would most certainly _die_ ere I repeated a single word.” He shared a pained smile at his own expense, unclasping his cloak and tossing it, too, to the ground.

 

Now it was Alphinaud's turn to experience the mortification, thoroughly embarrassed by the thought even by proxy. It occurred to him, of course, that that might not have been the worst of it. “Thank every one of the Twelve that he did not see fit to _show_ you,” he said acidly. It was humorous, but only in the abstract. He should rather have been uncontainably jealous had the mad lord so much as laid a _finger_ on his lover, and to witness it in person might well have provoked him to violence.

 

It was all too forward as it was, too reminiscent of whatever relationship they had once shared. Naturally the meddlesome man would seek to intrude on their intimate business, regardless of propriety and common decency. He had to admit, of course, that he himself had no inkling as to the particulars of the process, only vague desire and vaguer fears. He had vainly hoped Aymeric's few additional years might have provided the necessary knowledge or instinct, but that was a silly thing to count on when both men had attested that the knight was as virginal as he.

 

It was something of a relief, then, if he thought about it hard enough. Of course, he had no wish to. Haurchefant made his head hurt on the best of days.

 

There were better things to think about.

 

Aymeric returned an enthusiastic hum of agreement, somehow voicing all his shame, anger, and appreciation all in a single note. “You have no _idea_ how right you are.”

 

With a flail of crossed arms and a shrug of his shoulders, the knight's black tunic was doffed as well. Alphinaud was treated with a glimpse of his pale back, muscles corded with the movement of his arms as the garment slid free. At last his face was revealed, black hair soft and slightly tussled, turning almost shyly to regard him and leaning back on his elbows. He had managed to remove all but his trousers now, even his long gloves lying somewhere in a mess of steel and silk. The Lord Commander had shed his skin, and was now simply Aymeric. His lover, his alone.

 

His knight smiled, almost demurely, a faint blush making itself more at home on his cheeks. He could never quite tell if Aymeric was shy beneath his gaze, or merely fighting some inner theological battle. Fortunately, it was a battle Alphinaud always seemed to win. It took only a moment of returning his smile with significantly more mischief shining behind it, before the knight hummed a dark note of victory and crawled over to him, the wolf satisfied that the chase was ended. Over him, and upon. Earlier the man had clutched him close in a shadow play of things to come. Now, they knocked on the door to depravity. He looked up into Aymeric's eyes, to find the other man was gripped with a tempest of emotion. Concern, maybe, or the need to comfort. Lust, certainly, burning bright. Love, even, just perhaps.

 

Alphinaud found that he was no longer afraid, and quite forgot to remark on it.

 

Instead he registered a complaint, winding his fingers into the man's hair and pulling him close. It was not a kiss, nor a hug precisely. Simply the need for more contact. Closer, warmer. “And did Haurchefant's tutelage mention the need for trousers?” He arched upward, reveling in the warmth that reached him through his thin shirt, and spread his legs to wrap around Aymeric's hips and cling to him utterly. In truth, he too was guilty of the sin of too much cloth. But the knight's was for work, while his was for _play_.

 

“If you don't like them, take them off me,” Aymeric returned with a note of petulance. He growled the suggestion directly into Alphinaud's ear, a form of revenge perhaps for the reminder of recent trauma, which failed to spark even the tiniest repentance.

 

Ah. Their crimes had the same motive after all. The youth nearly groaned at the implication, conscious now of the desire that had been waiting at the edges of his thought all throughout the day. Now with his lover pulled close, he could feel the implications near to hand. His body now knew what his mind had pondered, making him feel his desire in currents, sweeping through him and over his skin, pulsing with strength and foreboding like the mythic rivers that flowed between the seven hells. He let his curious hands loose to slide between their torsos, tracing the man's chest and stomach and loving what he felt, listening intently to the short puffs of air against his neck that seemed to have something different to say at every brush of his fingers.

 

They had the freedom, now, to experience each-other properly. But he was fixated on what was still yet denied him. It took little time for his trembling hands to find the belt buckle and prize it free, then slip to a series of buttons which he managed not to break only by the expedient of using both hands. And then there was nothing to stop him from slipping the fabric from the knight's bony hips. He grabbed the band of his smallclothes along with the trousers and pushed, Aymeric cooperating now to shove them down his legs and kick them away, gone to the land of things that were not important.

 

And then some threshold seemed to be passed, because Aymeric was attacking him now, licking and sucking at his neck and shoulder with no restraint, making known the sharp sting of his teeth between tender kisses and the occasional possessive growl. Alphinaud surrendered immediately, no fight remaining or necessary. He surrendered to the feeling of being owned, allowing the man to claim him, reveling in his strength and assertive bites, welcoming the hands that finally knew what they wanted and encouraging them with his own. They wanted his clothing gone, and did not take long to achieve it. The dark-haired knight paused his ministrations only briefly, to push the small blue shirt over Alphinaud's head, and then to slide the pants off his legs, tossing away the last barrier between them and pressing their bodies together immediately. So hot. So present, an eternal now filled with heat and sweat and skin.

 

It should have been like in the cave, but it wasn't. Not at all.

 

Then they had feared. Feared each-other's gaze, shyness driving them to attempt to keep themselves covered even as they had coveted the skin of their partner. Feared judgment, from without and from within. Feared to admit to themselves that they wanted, and to their lover that they loved. Feared that they would die, and with them, the only good thing that had ever happened under the Fury's watch. Feared that they would live, but live without the other, knowing that paradise was only as far as their lover's lips, but that they would never see it again.

 

Now there was no fear, there were no barriers. No shyness, no secrets, no confessions, no blankets under which to hide. Alphinaud had his wish. He surrendered so completely that he had forgotten that he had anything to lose. His pride was an obstacle, his innocence an irritation that he would be glad to do without. His heart could not be broken because his brave knight kept it from falling, and the danger was trivial because _Alphinaud would protect hi_ _s love_. There was no fear because there was nothing worth fearing, anymore. Everything paled in comparison to the feeling of Aymeric pressed against him, clutching him close and trembling himself as if they had pooled their thoughts and emotions between them, and were confused as to whose feelings belonged to whom.

 

It only lasted a moment, though. Because then Aymeric seemingly sorted out his thoughts, recognizing hunger as his own and _desperate_ , and he acted. A kiss was nearest to hand and so Alphinaud received it gladly, opening himself to the man's tongue. It was not a gentle kiss, not giving or inviting as much as taking. It was rough and needy and even a little painful, too much teeth, more tongue than was strictly called for, and messy. Alphinaud loved it, loved the rejection of control and gentleness, loved the way the man's hand practically clawed down his side, leaving a cool sting where his nails rent a little too hard, not quite pain anymore because where Aymeric touched there could only be pleasure. Most amazingly, he loved the feel of the man's cock against his hip, ilms from his own, so hard now, so hot. If he had not had other things on his mind, he might have been tempted to grab it within his own claws, tease it and taste it and watch his lover squirm as he had their first time together. But no, not now, even as their hips seemed to undulate without either of their permission, the sweat between them just enough now to make their skin slide, so _close_ , and oh, _oh_ , it would be enough...

 

“Aymeric,” he pressed from his lips, the name emerging embedded within a long throaty moan. He nearly had to fight the man to have the use of his own tongue, and once he had it the sounds didn't all seem to want to convey the same message. Worse, his desire to submit made him strangely reluctant to insist on the very point. It would have been easy to give in. He was not expecting to have to resort to begging, not when the knight had seemed so eager to follow his orders.

 

It was a good thing he didn't need his pride. The knight was peering at him, eyes dilated and hair wild, the thistle crown of the fey prince, cruel and terrible and dangerous. “I need you,” Alphinaud said, the words transformed in the hot crucible of his mouth into a dark whinge of need. It was enough though, enough to cause the larger man to swear vividly through clenched teeth and break away from him, though the youth's fingernails rent long furrows in his back to slow his progress.

 

The cooling sweat on his stomach was insult enough without the loss of his lover to contend with. He stared after him dumbly as he slid to the edge of the bed, leaning halfway off of it to root around on the floor as though he had dropped a truffle into a pile of gysahl greens and feared a chocobo might come along at any moment. Alphinaud was treated to a view of the larger man's back and rear for his troubles, one of his legs bending artfully in the air to balance him, briefly transforming him into a great statue or painting from another era. It was as if he couldn't fail to be beautiful if he'd tried.

 

It felt like much longer than the moment it took.

 

And then his lover was back, twisting around with an object held in his hand, a small phial of some liquid. Aymeric moved to crouch over him again, but lower, straddling his hips now between his long arms, looking up at him without really seeming to _see_.

 

Like Alphinaud, he was too preoccupied with possibility. The eternal now had become the eternal future, the next moment in a long line of moments of which that they both knew the ending. The anticipation was palpable, shared between them like the air they breathed, hot and unsteady and scented with burning Coerthan spruce.

 

He had time again to fear, but he did not listen. He was too occupied by Aymeric, the cast of his eyes that was at once intense and demure, the lips that were parted too wide to be properly a matter of breath, too still to be in anticipation of speech. He was blushing furiously, and that suited him fine as well. Aymeric wore a blush like a refined woman might wear a pearl necklace. It seemed at home on him, not distracting from his otherworldly beauty but emphasizing the paleness of his skin and the fine features of his face, his softened eyes and narrow lips.

 

He was innocent, and he was a carnivore at feed.

 

His knight hesitated, running his hands over Alphinaud's legs nervously, gently nudging them into a bent position and trailing minute kisses over his thighs. “I cannot promise that it won't hurt,” he said. His voice betrayed his own fears, sparking in the younger man's chest suddenly and causing his anxiety to ignite. It burned briefly, quick and hot, but soon cooled to white ash. “But I have been assured that the pain will pass... agreeably.” Aymeric said it uncertainly, as if he weren't sure what it meant.

 

Alphinaud believed him anyway. “I'm not afraid of pain,” he said, feeling as though he forced the words from the depth of his lungs with great difficulty. He struggled to relax, to wait for whatever was to come. It was difficult to wait with stoicism, not knowing against what he steeled his nerves. He did not fear any longer, but that didn't mean he wasn't nervous.

 

His lover seemed to hover on the edge of pressing for more, watching him with hooded eyes that failed to hide his simmering desire. The desire won out. “Very well,” he said softly. His voice had descended to its deepest register, the place where the lowest undertones could only be heard reverberating within the listener's chest.

 

Aymeric's voice could provoke Alphinaud's desire like naught else, but when it sang of the knight's own, it was ambrosia. Without registering it he had lain his head back to revel in the thoughts sparked by the simple words. He was thankful for his lover's heated breaths just then, for they were his only warning against the tongue that began to tease his cock. Their long flirtation had been torturous, taking him so close to need and then cooling his blood. Aymeric's lips brought him fully to attention, made him whimper pathetically with desperation. There was no more patience, no more time, no water that could quench his thirst.

 

The man between his legs growled in agreement.

 

Another few moments, and he was aware of a movement of his lover's hands. Then a cool sensation pressing against his rear, tracing along the cleft of his arse. He nearly jumped away at the feeling, despite knowing that it was coming, but Aymeric's lips kept him in place, nervous but too aroused to care and waiting, waiting for the cool wet finger to enter him and resolve all the unknowns tumbling through his mind.

 

His lover took his time. He had thought the man had no more patience, but with a cock in his mouth he was surprisingly tame, lingering over every movement with relish. The slick finger seemed to be circling the area like a vulture, and despite himself Alphinaud stretched his legs wider in vain hope of hurrying its movement. Finally, after an eternity of slight movements of a devilish tongue, the searching stopped. The arrow found its mark, and slowly Aymeric pressed inside.

 

A tiny bit, less than an ilm, less a delve and more a peek. Alphinaud congratulated himself for not jumping at the sensation, merely emitting an undignified squeak. Not from the feeling, but from the expectation of things half-imagined. Only afterwards did the slight chill register, followed dully by the odd sensation of being unable to force the offending object out. The chill passed quickly, but the strangeness only increased as his mind fought to categorize the feeling.

 

Vaguely he was aware that the knight had stopped lapping lazily at his erection, but when he opened his eyes his lover's attention was only on him. He seemed concerned and a little awed at the same time, licking his teeth restlessly as he looked back. There was some sort of play happening within the theater of his eyes, as if he were a madman who could only pretend, for short intervals, to be entirely sane.

 

“Relax,” he whispered, longingly, achingly, and Alphinaud struggled to obey. The knight's emotions were his, the struggle happening within his own body now, and the only thing he could bring himself to fear was that the teasing might never end.

 

A deep breath in, held, and released. And Aymeric pushed deeper into him, gently, probingly, so smoothly it was nearly sex already even if he yet felt little pleasure from it. All metaphor and no substance, but enough that he felt his body wanting to respond even as it tried to reject the sensation. The hot mouth that renewed its torturous teasing seemed to be slowly recasting the sensation, making it seem erotic by mere association, making him hard for more.

 

“Does it hurt?” The man's concern seemed genuine, if for no other reason than that Alphinaud doubted that the intensity of his desire could allow him to speak unless he truly worried. As if to emphasize the point, he let loose a high-pitched whine when Alphinaud looked back at him, like a dog that could no longer bear to watch its master sit at table.

 

“No,” Alphinaud replied, but he found his breath wasn't working quite right. He stretched backwards against the bed and arched his back and neck, needing to use the muscles he yet had control over, needing to open up the space of his lungs because they were not drawing air like they should. “It's strange. I think... my body only objects because my mind is confused.” He felt as if he should blush as he said it, but he could not. They had passed the point of embarrassment long ago.

 

“My apologies,” Aymeric said, so quietly he might have missed it had the room not echoed as silent as a cathedral. “I did not have time to try it myself.” And he had been wrong, it was possible to feel embarrassment. He didn't feel the flush, his skin being too warm already, but there was that prickle across his skin. He shivered from the added feeling, all combining to make him skittish as the knight continued to slide deeper within him, moving slowly, searching.

 

And then, suddenly, the sensation transformed. It was alchemical, brilliant, the spark of inspiration. The alien pressure against his anus, the strange sensation of fullness, the occasional wet touches along his cock, all of them combined the moment that _something_ was touched within him. His hands jerked spasmodically in the sheets and he _moaned_ , loud and needy and with no room in his mind for shame. Oh, yes, he thought, panting now through his mouth in dull surprise. This was going to be very interesting indeed.

 

He thought he had said something to that effect, registered his astonishment in something other than low gurgles of pleasure. Only the other man seemed not to have heard anything, too busy staring in shock at the sight of Alphinaud's epiphany. It didn't matter, because he answered the young man's true command, the demand for more. He continued to search until he stroked the spot again, pressing a little harder and more deliberately, memorizing the feeling and the location.

 

Alphinaud could only writhe. The pressure on his cock returned, vengeful in its focus, making him suddenly incapable of holding his hips steady, making him need to press into the heat of the man's mouth even as the finger thrust into him. Then the intrusion vanished, making him whimper at the loss, clutching at the knight's soft hair, no longer capable of being satisfied by his tongue alone.

 

The finger was replaced by two. This, too, was uncomfortable at first, though for some strange reason the slight burn was recast almost immediately into pleasure, hot and forbidden and dirty. His mind had finally accepted that contact of this kind was sexual in nature, that the press of his fingers would bring him to ecstasy. And so it did, soon brushing against that hidden spot, the increased pressure of the second digit making the spark that much more brilliant. Alphinaud moaned wantonly, didn't care, needed more. And still the slick fingers worked within him, stretching now, widening and thrusting within him in imitation of what was to come.

 

When the fingers retreated again, there was a short space of silence within his mind. He had just enough time to realize that there were no unknowns left to fear.

 

And then a third finger was added, stinging boldly as it stretched him. The slick oil made it pass easily, if slowly and a little painfully. But it wasn't long before he was moved again to brilliant ecstasy. Discomfort was mere sensation, and sensation could be recast, reforged, beaten and molded and shaped. His entire lower body was awash in it, and it had all been tempered into pure pleasure, hot, deep, erotic. Aymeric's inexperience didn't matter. He was the smith, and he would bring his hammer to bear.

 

For a space it seemed as if it would never end. But then it stopped, time snapping like a rubber-band and rebounding, over far too soon. Alphinaud groaned at the loss of his knight's tongue, a tone scarcely discernible from his wanton mewling of a few moments ago, save for the lower tone and the lack of frenzy in his gasps for breath. But Aymeric had no pity, withdrawing his fingers, slowly, gently, as if to tease him further. He was startled by the feeling of complete loss, of emptiness and cold. He _needed_ to be filled, so far gone that the thought didn't even provoke him to shame. It was only through a monumental exertion of will that he managed not to beg senselessly, only opening his eyes and staring at his lover with wanton gaze and pouting lips, unable to withhold his lust even if he had wanted to.

 

There would have been no point. Nor was begging necessary, because Aymeric was as wild with want as he. He seemed barely able to contain himself, leaning back with legs spread and fisting his own erection with a slick hand. It was an amazing sight, enough to make the breath catch in Alphinaud's throat and stick like butter, enough to make him forget his own need and simply watch. The knight was beyond shyness, meeting his eyes easily and lifting his hips to give him a better view. He gave a few slow, torturous strokes, furrowing his brow and gasping through parted lips, coating himself thoroughly in oil and damnation.

 

It was nearly enough to make Alphinaud praise the Fury, for having delivered him such a man. But then the beautiful knight released himself and crawled forward, looking as struck with awe and anticipation as he himself felt. And then he was reminded that all that he did, he did in _spite_ of gods and fate, and that the only one he should thank for Aymeric's love was the man himself.

 

Alphinaud could no longer watch. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on feeling, as if somehow the use of too many senses might short out his brain. He listened intently to the slide of Aymeric's hands on his hips, on his legs, moving closer to him and negotiating awkwardly to find an angle he liked. And when he felt a heat press against his rear, demanding entry, he relaxed and shifted his hips closer. A greeting, perchance even a request.

 

It was Aymeric's turn to groan in anticipation, a sound that he felt could have lifted him to ecstasy all on its own. And then he gripped Alphinaud's thigh and pressed slowly forward, and then even touch was too much to process.

 

His knight was too gentle, pushing only a little ways before stopping. It stung and burned, like the press of all three fingers but more insistent, more solid and more difficult to reforge. But it was accompanied by a spark of exultation, of victory and _yes, finally_ , and all he could bring himself to care about was that he no longer felt so empty. A gurgling gasp was pressed from his lungs, followed by a low nasal keen for more.

 

He opened his eyes, registering the dulling of the stinging sensation and the way it seemed to be replaced with liquid heat. Aymeric was still, his own eyes squeezed tight in furious concentration, teeth gritted in a snarl as if the act pained him.

 

Perhaps it _was_ painful, to exert such self-control. As it was, Alphinaud felt as though he might break from the tension. But he remembered the earlier command to relax, and so he did, frowning as if the task were a chore, and his thoughts were bent only on play. Bent only on the solid heat that was so near to filling him completely. So near to what he wanted, he knew. So near to breaking them both apart, and fusing them back together into a single whole.

 

“Aymeric,” he urged. Even the name took effort, trembling like a fly in a web. But the man looked at him, gave in to the need that the younger man felt even if he seemed to be leashing his own. And clutching his hip now to steady himself, he leaned forward and pushed, his face blank as if serene though he was twisted with the agony of restraint, tasting the feeling even as he watched Alphinaud for signs of discomfort. It was reminiscent of another time, in Aymeric's bed, when Alphinaud had lain hands on his friend and tested him, too, for hurt. But now, in his lover, he could see only overriding pleasure instead of pain, wonder instead of fear.

 

It was slow. An ilm at a time, each movement making the man shudder and flicker his lashes, though he kept his focus somehow. The younger man no longer minded the strange pain, it was only a signal. A sign that he was being filled. It made him answer back, a long, low sound escaping him as he felt the sensation shift, feeling the man's cock not just fill him but seem to exceed him, pressing somewhere deep, making him tremble to feel the length of him. And Aymeric, too, moaned out his pleasure, stopping now that his hips nearly touched the smaller man's thighs, biting his lip and shaking at the sensation, at the need to move, at whatever religious experience he was provoked to by the feeling of being buried so deeply in his lover's body.

 

And they held that way, for longer than either seemed to be able to bear. Alphinaud wanted to curse and cry, but he knew there was reason to it, shining through their madness. Instead he waited, relaxing through the pain and focusing on the pleasure, on the knowledge that they were joined, on the memory of just how Aymeric was capable of making him feel.

 

When Aymeric opened his eyes again, the madman was no longer able to pretend to be sane. He could s _ee_ his need through the feral glare, as if the wolf would eat him alive, not even wait for his blood to run cool. He could feel it in the fingers that flexed around his thigh, squeezing nearly hard enough to bruise, even as the knight shifted to lay the leg over his shoulder and nuzzle it with a nose slicked with sweat and anticipation.

 

And just like his fear, Alphinaud realized that the pain was gone, naught but a manageable discomfort. They could wait longer, certainly, but he didn't want to. He wanted _Aymeric_.

 

 _Now_.

 

He let him know. He tensed his shoulders and pushed, not having the leverage or the practice to fully thrust against the other man but accomplishing enough to make him groan deeply, to break his resolve and make him jerk his hips forward. He had thought the man fully buried within him but he had been wrong, the additional sensation knocking the wind out of him and making him grunt in surprise and delight. It wasn't pleasure yet, but it was _sex_ , rough and hard and a little sore. He liked it on principle, wanted more.

 

It was not denied him. Aymeric took a moment to steady himself, placing his weight on spread knees and leaning on one hand. And before Alphinaud could wonder whether it was an uncomfortable position, he was blinded by the sensation of movement, of the knight drawing backward and retreating. Slick and soft and slow. And then he pushed forward, gently, unlike his loss of control a moment before but just as dirty and erotic. He seemed to be blinded by the action as well, his bright eyes losing focus even as they attempted to watch the younger man's face, his jaw going slack with the onslaught of feeling.

 

Alphinaud had to touch him, had to tangle his fingers in his hair, had to tug just a little and draw his lover closer, make him lean over him until he could feel the heat radiating from his body. Alphinaud was his, lying helplessly below him as a victim or a meal, giving himself willingly and wanting it so badly that he was almost ready to carve out his own heart and offer himself to wolf's jaws. He groaned, thrilled by the submission alone, at the sensation of Aymeric slowly thrusting as he shifted his hips to meet him, again and again but too damn slow, not enough, not quite _right_.

 

He keened with frustration, a high nasal sound of need and annoyance, trying once again to push back, ending up marginally more successful even as Aymeric tried to hold him steady. Once again the motion prompted a response, a harsh thrust, more controlled than before but beautiful in its power and violence. Aymeric barked and growled at the feeling, tensing for a moment and panting with his eyes squeezed shut, looking truly feral now, truly wild.

 

“I can handle it,” Alphinaud panted, impressed that he could actually speak after such a primal display, after tasting the fruit of madness. “Aymeric, _take_ me godsdamn—” and before he could finish his blaspheming the man had complied, drawing back once again to fill him savagely. There was a small pang of pain this time, the angle of the thrust seeming to drive deeper and remind his body how unused it was to the intrusion, but it was soon forgotten. The very motions themselves had become erotic, the dark pleasure of the knight above him filling him with desire, the harsh sensation of being so full and so used. He found himself keening from lust rather than pleasure, a high-pitched sound of invitation and triumph as Aymeric abandoned his restraint to drive deep, to finally take what he wanted, to look upon him as his own.

 

Until something changed. It was so subtle, the man above him shifting again, pulling him backwards to sit almost in his lap. And the next thrust struck home, hit that strange place within him that melted lead into gold, turning the strange feeling of being filled into the feeling of being truly _fucked_ , and now there was no way for him to remain silent. He could only burrow into the sheets with clenching fingers and yell, unhinged and unrestrained, nearly every thrust making his body burst with ecstatic pleasure, the feeling like an orgasm that wasn't quite there but made his vision blur and his voice tear. And now there was no reason for Aymeric to hold back, he had found what he wanted. He could be heard as well, grunting and panting with the effort, his restraint now having shifted from the need to keep from enacting his desires, to the need to keep doing it, as long as he possibly could. His voice was not as wanton and wild as Alphinaud's, but it was no less impassioned. His sounds were quiet and plaintive, clipped like the wings of a captive bird, as if in resisting giving voice to them, he could resist the onslaught of sensation from his lover's willing body.

 

He could not resist for long. Neither of them could.

 

It was Aymeric who broke first, inevitable perhaps, though at that moment it had hardly been certain. Alphinaud had been right there with him, so close to the edge and with no need to harbor any restraint. But it had been the knight who had reigned himself in for longer, and so his resistance that faltered. He fixed Alphinaud with a look of regret between wild thrusts, regret and wild abandon, mouth opened to speech that would never come. The younger man did not share his disappointment, only his ecstasy. And by degrees his tight focus unwound, the uncoiling clock-spring making his rhythm falter, decaying into quick, shallow strokes. He could only seem to hold himself up at that point, too unsteady on his hands to do any more.

 

And then he seemed to object, to defy the mad dance of pleasure, long enough to grab Alphinaud's hand within his own and guide it to the younger man's erection. Loosely clasping his fingers around it before returning to his own work, cool blue eyes watching him with an intensity of focus that should have burned him alive had he not been alight already.

 

So he stroked himself, not embarrassed in the least, nothing wrong with bringing himself to pleasure in time with Aymeric's wild half-thrusts. If the feeling had been overwhelming before, it was mind-bending now, the dual stimulation seeming to interact somehow, two voices twining into a single song, a fast, sensual rhythm. Alphinaud lost himself in it, throwing his head back and moving in time, adding his own voice to the song.

 

And that was all it took for the wolf to lose his leash, snarl ferally and give himself over to delight. He moaned deeply, raggedly, repeatedly, taking in the sensation fully and seeming to fall apart under the onslaught. Then his hips jerked and Alphianud was awash in the sensation, filled now not only with the man but with his seed, the evidence of his ownership, scalding and twitching and deep.

 

Alphinaud had lost track, somewhere along the way, but it may have been that he screamed.

 

There was no striving or asking after this pleasure. It had filled him completely, every sense given over to hedonism and desire. He was bathed in it, unable to escape it if he had wanted to, no corner of his mind or body which was not devoted to ecstasy. If the brutal fact of the knight's pounding cock had not done him in, the sharp, direct singing of his own caress would have. But the sight and sound of his lover coming undone was irresistible, and his own orgasm had followed like light after a sunrise. He could only lash out toward the man, wrapping an arm around his neck and holding him close as he lost control over his body, convulsing and groaning as he coated himself with his release.

 

It was some moments before he could be properly have been said to be aware of anything at all.

 

But then he was, feeling the wet slide of the knight withdrawing from him gently, an odd slick motion made all the stranger for his sensitization to pleasure. And then Aymeric was holding him close, rolling to lay beneath him and clutch the younger man to his breast, heedless of the sticky fluids that squelched between them. The sweat that had coated them like morning dew began to cool, air brushing now against his back and lulling him like a caress. And Alphinaud lay his head down on the larger man's shoulder, and was content. No need to speak, no words necessary save the sounds of passion they had already exchanged.

 

Perhaps sensing this, the knight rumbled beneath him. A long, echoing hum of contentment that seemed to stretch all the way around him. A soft embrace, a single-note song of love.

 

It was precisely what Alphinaud had wanted. And he had no doubt that he would ask for it again. And Aymeric would give it to him.

 

His knight would give him anything he commanded. Anything at all.


	13. The Puppetmaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was terrifying... for me, at least. But... oh dear. My torture is not ended. How unexpected!

Like the tempest of their emotions, the fire had burned low in the hearth. Mere glowing embers now chased away the evening's chill, warm instead of hot, no longer too warm for blankets. The light had dimmed as well, providing only the barest illumination for the two sinners that lay, sticky and spent, upon their bed. Light was not needed, now. They knew all they needed to know by memory, and touch.

 

Alphinaud was relaxed, his entire body seeming to sing a happy song. There was no more tension, no more nervousness or fear. He could sleep securely, confidently in the embrace of his lover. Beneath him, Aymeric was breathing slowly, sleepily, seeming to enjoy the same contentment. Alphinaud was his, now. On the morrow, they would defend each-other as lovers, tried and true.

 

At length, the heavy air mingled with the sweat and sin covering their bodies to make the younger man uncomfortable. He was happy, but he did not enjoy the feeling of the dried and sticky fluids coating his thighs. He picked himself off of Aymeric's chest, noting the creak of his muscles and the strange heaviness of his body, as though he were an automaton made of lead. The knight made a small noise of protest, a disappointed hum that seemed to register the complaint clinically, a vague point of objection to be noted in the logs and ignored.

 

Until Alphinaud made to stand on unsteady feet, and sat immediately back down on the bed with a startled huff. The other man roused to grab him immediately, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind and hugging him close. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered, not merely concerned but anxious, a harsh note of accusation against himself.

 

“No,” the younger Elezen replied automatically, though in truth he was far more sore than he had expected. It was not that difficult to bear, just startling. “I will be fine, just... fetch us some towels, if you please?” The knight whimpered softly but complied, first burying his nose in the youth's hair for a moment as if he feared he might forget the scent.

 

The white grimoire was never far from Alphinaud's grasp. He found it on the bedside table, and flipped quickly to his healing spell. The pages seemed to move of their own accord beneath his fingers, as if they had sensed his resolve for the battle to come and obeyed his orders like his faithful Carbuncle. He gathered the energy effortlessly and channeled it to his own body, pressing his hand to his lower abdomen and closing his eyes to feel the magic work. It was a cooling sensation, pleasant and earthy like a sprig of wintergreen on his tongue.

 

By the time Aymeric returned, he was able to stand and move comfortably. He took the offered towel with a gentle smile, ignoring the look of reproach the knight gave him. As far as he knew, it was not cheating to soothe his own hurts.

 

The hand towel had been moistened in the basin, clean and cool. Alphinaud first scrubbed his face with it, feeling refreshed and somewhat elated. Then he went about cleaning the rest of his body, washing his chest and stomach of his own fluids. Before proceeding to the rest he paused, looking back to his lover and standing somewhat awkwardly by the bed. Aymeric had pushed aside the blankets and made himself comfortable between the light sheets, and was watching him with a sleepy expression, warm and dark.

 

Alphinaud realized that until tonight, Aymeric had not looked at him fully naked. He blushed under his gaze and found himself unable to look away, as though he feared the man might pounce if shown an onze of weakness. Perhaps he might, at that. But it took only a few moments of enduring his lover's soft stare before the knight turned away, staring up at the ceiling, pretending perhaps that he had merely gotten bored.

 

And he spoke, a welcome distraction from Alphinaud's task, which might well have embarrassed him to death even unattended. “Were we not... over-loud? Might we have been heard?” The knight spoke in a near-whisper, not the dark hush of love-making but with a sort of fragility that seemed nearly as intimate.

 

“It was perhaps unwise,” answered the younger man softly. He had made the majority of the ruckus himself, of course, but he refused to allow himself to feel ashamed. “But there is little risk. The rooms nearest ours are unoccupied, the hall a dead-end, and the walls thick. Unless an inquisitor happened to get utterly lost and wander by our door, we should be safe.” Blessedly, he finished washing without thinking about the task too much. He dropped his towel on the floor beside Aymeric's, taking only brief note of the symbolism of the two soiled rags lying limply together. It was more satisfying to live the reality, crawling in beside his lover, the whisper of cool clean sheets and warm skin against his own to welcome him to bed.

 

Aymeric embraced him, nuzzling his face into already-mussed white hair, wrapping him securely in his arms and pulling him him close to his chest, proof against any further attempt to escape.

 

That was fine with him.

 

“And... how would you know this, precisely?” asked the knight, hardly even bothering to speak, making low rasping sounds into Alphinaud's hair that he could nearly have mistaken for an unusually-talented bear.

 

The younger man smiled, wiggling as if to move closer to Aymeric's side, though it was quite impossible. “The wisdom of smallfolk,” he replied. “It is for this reason that Junh is in my employ. One would think that all the servants ever accomplished was to sneak around and find amusing places in which to fornicate, to hear her talk. She will take care of cleaning as well, and see that no-one discovers your room unused. There shall be no evidence.”

 

Alphinaud said it with confidence, but in truth, it was mortifying. The very idea of having another person, especially a woman, as a confidante was bad enough, but the thought of her laundering his dirty linen was beyond the pale. He had finally accepted the embarrassment as the price he payed for sin, like a rosary prayer or a blood offering.

 

In retrospect, it was most definitely worth it.

 

The other man answered with a quick high-pitched hum, twitching in silent laughter to register his surprise. “I must needs find some way to show her mine thanks,” he mused.

 

“Pray do not ask her how,” answered Alphinaud, tartly but with a hint of sugar. He closed his eyes and let the conversation drop upon the floor, to wait for the Miqo'te to retrieve it in the morning along with his wine glass and the filthy bedclothes. He felt wonderful, almost drunk with satisfaction and romance. Silently he endeavored to drink in the moment, to forge it into purest memory, shining and golden.

 

Long minutes passed, honeyed and languid but wakeful still. Perhaps it was the scent of Aymeric's sweat, wrapping around him as he buried his face against the man's chest. Or maybe it was the temptation to further action, the knowledge that though they were tired, the night was young, and they knew not when they would get another opportunity.

 

Regardless, he did not sleep.

 

“You asked me a question,” Alphinaud said at last, merely an indistinct murmur from within the cloistered safety of his knight's arms.

 

“Hmm? When?” The reply was soft but immediate, suggesting that Aymeric had not, in fact, drifted into slumber, perhaps for the same reasons. With the illusion of sleep dispelled, he was free to move his hands, lifting one to stroke Alphinaud's hair with lazy fingers.

 

It was tempting to turn off his conscious musings just to enjoy the sensation, but the younger man resisted. “Before... in the cave... in the closet. It was the same question,” he said, vaguely aware that he might not have been making sense, but not able to bring himself to care. “You asked if I loved you.”

 

The knight did not answer as much as seem to startle, dropping any thoughts he carried in a heap. “Did I?” The stroking fingers stopped, just for a moment, before resuming with slightly more care and energy. “Ah. In the cupboard, I asked if you...” and then he fell silent, though there was still movement against the pillow, as though he had attempted to keep speaking despite the failure of his voice.

 

Alphinaud lifted his head to kiss him softly, quieting his lips to match his tongue.

 

“It was the same question,” the young diplomat reiterated patiently, taking in the anxiety in the other man's eyes when the simple kiss had ended. He frowned then, frowned at himself and his own childishness, his constant need to act as if he were in command, even when he was not.

 

He pulled away slightly, just enough to free one arm and hold his hand over his face, palm out and fingers splayed as though to touch an invisible ceiling mere ilms above him. He twisted to look, wriggling a little just to rub against Aymeric's hand, to register that he appreciated the touch and, like he did of all of the knight, wanted more.

 

He spoke softly into the night, tracing the words slowly with his tongue. “You always see... right through me.”

 

He let his eyes unfocus, looking into the shadows above until the image of his hand blurred. It became a hazy double-image, one hand solid before him, another insubstantial and translucent to the ceiling above. When he had been a young child, wide-awake but tucked into bed, he had briefly convinced himself he had the power to see through solid objects. It had taken him at least a bell of thought and experimentation to reason out the reality: that each eye saw a different image, and that somehow his mind stitched them into a seamless whole without his conscious will or recollection. It had almost been a better discovery, though his sister had been decidedly unimpressed when he awoke her to share it.

 

When he was around Aymeric, he often felt as though he truly _were_ transparent, and that the commander had discovered the method to see right through his confident facade to the child beneath. Still lying restless in bed, fancying that he had the power to move the world.

 

At some point that had ceased to frighten him.

 

“Yes,” he said simply, answering the question Aymeric had never dared directly ask. No fanfare, no weeping. Simply a fact.

 

The other man was silent for a long space, his fingers stilling to mere twitching against Alphinaud's scalp, as one might scratch a cat. It was a lovely sensation, and the youth dropped his arm and closed his eyes to enjoy it, to revel in the surety of the knight's embrace, no fear whatever that his feelings might not be answered.

 

“I see,” Aymeric answered at length, as though it had taken him that long to draw breath into his lungs. He sounded a little bereft, caught short by the unprovoked declaration. The scratching fingers ceased, moving to the back of the younger man's head and grasping his braid, gently threading beneath the band that held it secure. The knight hummed quietly as he worked, a deep but simple melody echoing all around Alphinaud as it reverberated through the man's broad chest.

 

“You have had me for... quite some time, I think,” Aymeric confirmed when his song had ended. He freed the second band from the base of the braid, and began to work his fingers between the strands, unhurried and unfocused as if he cared little whether he straightened the hair or tangled it further.

 

“I wanted you from the beginning, you know. The first time I saw you, all spitfire and quarrelsome words... 'twas a joy to speak to you, to see your eyes dance with the parry of your tongue. And mine eyes... they did wander. At first, it pains me to say, I was ashamed due to your youth. It did not take long for me to see past that, of course. You have wit and strength well beyond your years. Within you... there is a fire. You did not merely warm me in that cave. I have been _burned_ , and I fear I shall never recover.” The last was nearly whispered, though perfectly audible in the stillness of their sanctuary. A hushed admission, not merely of love, but of the depths to which he slaved as its servant.

 

Alphinaud smiled, holding in a chuckle at the dramatic color of the knight's words. “Then you intended to seduce me?” he asked lightly. “Next time you should proceed straight to the kiss, and avoid the Witchdrop altogether.”

 

“'Next time' I shall simply bend you over the table and dispense with the diplomacy,” the knight growled in reply. The image was enough to make Alphinaud gasp, stilling in the other man's grasp as if he had been struck. It was a fantasy he had entertained before, and it made his blood race to hear it spoken. His body reminded him, subtly, that he was quite naked in bed with the man, and that there was plenty of other furniture near to hand, if necessary.

 

The older man paused, briefly taken by the image as well, or perhaps the sweet tension of the youth in his arms. “No,” Aymeric continued after a pregnant moment. “It was vain folly to bring you supper that night. I have lived long with the burden of mine perversion, I never planned to act upon it. I reasoned that it was not so great a crime to lift the spirits of a friend. I did it merely to have a chance to speak with you, perchance to see you smile. I _never_ meant to court you. It was to remain mine secret sin, forevermore.”

 

The fingers that tangled through Alphinaud's hair had reached his head once again, combing the longer strands straight and making them fan out over his shoulder. The sensation was foreign and familiar all at once, ghosts and prickles of memory singing of another time, another trust. It had been years since Alisaie had combed her fingers through his hair and helped him to braid it. He nearly trembled at the memory, at the feelings it drew forth, like water gushing from a hidden spring and mingling with the trust he felt for the man who held him now.

 

Aymeric's voice had gained a hushed quality, as if he too inhabited memory and feeling rather than flesh and blood. “But when you took it upon yourself to heal me... oh _Fury_ you cannot know how I suffered.” He spoke into the younger man's hair, softly, in the deep husky rumble Alphinaud was beginning to believe he could not live without.

 

“All these years have I struggled against mine sinful nature, and you... you rendered it all into naught, into ash and hellfire. I still dream of that night, of the way you touched me so sternly, of the way you soothed mine pain at the same time as you caused me such anguish.” He _was_ anguished now, a sorrow that was somehow sweet, somehow longed-for, in his voice. “I dream... I dream that you did not leave, that you made me bend to your will, that you did not stop touching me until I screamed your name.” He paused, letting out a shaky breath, a puff of air against the point of the younger man's ear in which Alphinaud could almost _hear_ that scream. The younger Elezen whimpered sympathetically, unconsciously burrowing against the man that held him and pressing their bodies together. In the dark space between the sheets, he could feel that both of them were interested in more.

 

But the knight continued, not distracted by the contact, merely holding Alphinaud close and continuing to stroke his hair. “That is how I knew I was damned, when we traded tales over mulled wine,” he whispered. “I have been guilty of sin before, of thoughts and deeds and heresies. But after you touched me, I knew mine soul was forfeit. I had taken leave of sense and righteousness both, all ere I even felt your lips on mine.”

 

And Alphinaud had to make the suggestion a reality, seeking out a kiss and holding it, tenderly, reflecting the other man's wonder and care like a mirror of touch. He remembered the night that Aymeric had come to him, bearing spiced wine and heavy thoughts. He had spoken as though he had been certain he was destined for execution, and the next day his fears had seemed to come true. It still frightened him to remember that calm certainty of dread, just before they had said what could have been their final goodbye. It still frightened him to remember the closing of the camp's gate against the blinding snow, punctuating Aymeric's very life.

 

He did not wish to remember these things just now. And so he let the kiss soothe him, soothe them both with the reality of their love. It was solid and alive, warm and yielding as his knight responded to him, encouraged him, returned every caress.

 

Aymeric was, in fact, very real. Very solid. And Alphinaud found that sleep was no longer on his mind at all.

 

“Tell me what you dreamt,” he said, once he managed to win free of the other man's lips. There was an urgency in his breath as he sagged against Aymeric's chest, tension coiling in his arms and building in his torso like a doll wound with a key.

 

The knight answered with a soft groan, twitching to hug the younger man close and not releasing him. He trailed his nose down the nest of silvery white hair to nuzzle directly against Alphinaud's ear, tracing it with his lips and making him shiver involuntarily. “Many things,” whispered the knight, fraught and breathless, and there could be no doubt that he was remembering them all. “Many, many things.”

 

“Tell me,” Alphinaud urged. The close press of their bodies had turned to something else, not just a warm embrace but erotic, charged. He pressed his hips to Aymeric's, not an accidental touch but quite deliberate. Forceful, demanding that the other man yield up all his secrets.

 

It seemed impossible that he would ever grow used to the feeling of pressing against his lover, feeling the intensity of his desire branded into his body, a heat that he willingly returned. But the sensation was not nearly as overwhelming as the warm breath that assaulted his ear as Aymeric replied, a long, breathless open-mouthed moan that seemed to catch in his throat in places as he contemplated his answer.

 

At length he found he could speak, with effort, though he could not keep his hips steady, moving against Alphinaud in minute motions he might not even have been aware of making. “You have already enacted one of them... in the cave,” the knight whispered. Alphinaud was prevented from looking into his face in surprise, because Aymeric's long fingers had tangled so securely in his hair that he was now trapped against his neck and chest. “The way you took command of me... oh _Goddess_ you cannot know...” and the undulations of his hips increased, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched whimper embedded within his deep gasps for air.

 

In the cave, at the bottom of the Witchdrop. When he had rejected Aymeric's offer and elected instead to take him into his own mouth, brazenly defying any good sense either of them might have had remaining and losing himself to desires he hadn't even fully understood. The knight had seemed nervous, but he hadn't rejected his touch. He had stammered and blushed, though. And when Alphinaud had taken charge, the other man had seemed to lose control of himself completely, no longer shy, wild and unrestrained beneath his inexpert ministrations. As if he'd been desperate for it all along. Or at least... since the younger man had left him, broken but no longer bleeding, to recover in his bed.

 

Suddenly it made sense, how easily the other man had been seduced, how responsive he had been to his touch. How the knight had whispered into his ear of command, of obedience. He had thought it a taunt, some bells before. Now he knew otherwise.

 

Aymeric wanted to be claimed as much as Alphinaud had. Perchance... in a slightly different way.

 

If that was what the other man wanted, Alphinaud would certainly give it to him. He had been a virgin, it was true, but there was more than one kind of experience.

 

“Stop,” he said suddenly. His voice was foreign to him now, the cool wellspring of his command summoned from some other time and place. But it fit him like a glove, even now, even in the bedroom.

 

As if he had slapped Aymeric with that glove, the other man stilled his hips, releasing him completely. Alphinaud had been bound to the other man's body by the iron cords of his arms and the soft temptation of his skin and breath, but now, he was freed. He pulled back to look, to confirm, to peer into his lover's face and read the augurs in his eyes.

 

Those cold blue eyes could not even see him, now. Too wide with shock, possibly excitement. Unfocused and staring into the dark beyond their pillow, a thin wisp of breath all that the other man could pull between his lips. Alphinaud lifted a hand to trace those lips with his thumb, making them yield to his touch, become soft and pliant to his will.

 

Finally Aymeric dared a look at him, still and wary like a bird ready to fly, and Alphinaud smiled with wicked mischief. “Get up,” he said, only a thin veneer of amusement coating his clipped command. “Pour for me a glass of wine and clear the table. Then sit, as you did earlier.” And he sat up himself, to make way for the other man, to pull the sheets from the bed and carry them along as well.

 

There was no sense in making Junh's job harder on the morrow. He wrapped a sheet around himself like a long cloak, standing with shoulders tall and back straight to walk to his chair. The blanket he threw across the table once Aymeric had shifted the bread and wine to the floor on the far side. And then the other man sat down, perched upon it not as a predator of the dark, but as its victim. Naked and defenseless, unsure, fully aware that he was destined to become a meal for he whose eyes now watched him.

 

Alphinaud settled into his chair, accepting the now-full glass that Aymeric offered, letting his eyes adjust to the soft light that now glowed around the indistinct form of the other man's body. Once again he saw his lover only in outline. But now his armor was gone, and he could see everything. The hard lines of his body that couldn't disguise the softness of his flesh, the warmth of its touch. The strained way he held his neck and tensed his arms at his sides, belying his nervousness and making the younger man wonder if _any_ _one_ had ever seen his lover so unsure.

 

And, as his eyes grew accustomed to the contrast, the hard cock between his legs. Alphinaud would have blushed to look too closely at it before, at least when he wasn't directly interacting with it. But it was appropriate now, even necessary, because this was a role to play as well. Just as he had adopted the guise of meekness because he had wanted to submit, he now shoved aside his nervousness and donned the mask of cruel command.

 

He also needed to know that Aymeric appreciated it, or it would be for naught. But while he was not quite fully erect, it was evident that his shallow breaths and dilated pupils were not from fear.

 

He was excited.

 

He wanted an order. So Alphinaud gave it. “Touch yourself,” he said, voice edged with steel. “Show me what you do when you think of me, alone.”

 

Perform for me, he thought. Perform for me and I shall perform for you.

 

And so he eased himself back against the chair that had so frequently harbored his thoughts, and sipped his wine like a king watching his harlots dance. It was not the flavor for which he had requested it, though its keen edge seemed appropriate now. It focused him on the task, on the sight before him, on the way he held his shoulders beneath the cool sheet. It was only a prop, but it was perfect for the task, because it occupied his lips when otherwise he might have been tempted to put them to other use.

 

Very tempted. Because Aymeric responded to his order, first with a deep gasp, quiet but laced with meaning, with desire. But he obeyed. As he had earlier, he reached an arm behind him to steady himself with his palm, braced against the table beneath the blanket that protected it. And as he had earlier, he lay his head back and bared his neck. A show for Alphinaud's benefit, only now he understood, it was not temptation. It was submission, a display of his weakness, the degree to which he would debase himself for the man who sat before him, tasting his nervousness and anticipation with the tip of his tongue setting his glass to ring.

 

Oh, it was sweet.

 

Then Aymeric grasped himself with long, pale fingers, and Alphinaud knew in an instant that he had been right. Because his knight gave a low, gurgling moan, lips parted in profile and achingly beautiful. Then he let his face fall forward again, drooping over his chest as his hand began to stroke, not evenly, but unsteadily, as if this, too, were a mark of innocence he feared to lose.

 

He let the thought linger for several minutes, watching the other man struggle with his own will, watching him heave slightly in profile against the sensations he himself caused. He had seen his lover touch himself already this night, a sight that could have made his heart cease to beat. This was a far cry from the shameless display his knight had given him, when all patience was exhausted and it was time to lay his claim. It was the same act, yes, but it was almost as if a different man performed it.

 

It should have been difficult to say which he preferred. The predatory gleam in his sharp eyes and the unapologetic thrust of his hips had been captivating. But it could not compare to the way Aymeric looked now. Arrayed reluctantly before him, stomach taut from pleasure or nervousness, unable to keep a steady rhythm between his shallow gasps for air and the occasional twitch of his traitorous body.

 

He could not let the matter rest. He _had_ to know. “I will not permit you to lie to me, Aymeric. Are you truly shy, to have me watch you?” And he could not prevent his own lips from turning into a thin slice of a grin, though he tried to cover the movement with the cool touch of glass.

 

Just because Alphinaud was pretending to be confident, did not mean that his lover was afforded the same luxury. But the other man was not lying, his hand stilling momentarily, his cold but startled eyes peeking up under the mess the two of them had made of his shadow-dark hair. And he was blushing, just enough, just a little.

 

“Don't stop,” reminded the observer, calmly but with an edge to his tone. “Tell me why you are shy now, when you were not before.”

 

It might have been an odd thing, to demand cognizance and speech from the other man when he was supposed to be pleasing himself. But Alphinaud wanted that shyness now, merely another flavor of submission, making his dominance more meaningful, Aymeric's surrender more complete. And he suspected that to draw out the subject would only emphasize the feeling, embarrass him further as he had been beneath his hands so long ago.

 

The knight looked away, returning his hand to stilted motion and gasping through his open mouth. Alphinaud, the man who commanded his commander, felt it best not to press. He simply waited, watching the movement, trying hard not to blush himself as he licked the rim of his glass. It was not what the other man did that was so arresting, he realized quickly. It was his response to it, his tensed shoulders and quick gasps, the demure way he had turned his face to hide his shame. He found that it made his own cock ache in sympathy. And rather than hide his own arousal, he let his makeshift cloak fall open as he spread his legs subtly wider. His instincts screamed against the gesture, but it did not matter, because he, too, danced for another master.

 

Finally Aymeric found his voice, pressing it into service with great difficulty. It was twisted, constricted with bands of iron as though he were trying to keep it clean of all he was feeling. It did not nearly succeed, drawing attention to his need for secrecy, and the rouge that dusted his cheeks in the dim light.

 

“I do not know,” he said breathlessly. “Mayhap... mayhap you burn me again. I... oh _Goddess_ , I desire that flame... I want you to _touch_ me instead, but... your eyes... they...” and then the dark figure before the fire lapsed once again into a silence that was not truly quiet, reduced to low gasps and the occasional whimper as his hand continued to work. The words had been enough, though. They had not answered his question, not precisely, but it made no matter, because they had produced the desired effect. In his lover, who panted now for breath through the haze of his own pleasure, and in him.

 

He wanted he man before him. Perhaps he had been burned nearly enough, and it was time to claim his meal.

 

Aymeric's movements had gained definition gradually over the course of several minutes, going from stilted and stiff to long and languid. Alphinaud was not sure if it was simply his habit or a hesitance borne of stage-fright, but he had sought no lubrication save the sweet pre-cum that had quickly gathered at the tip. His lover behaved as though it were enough to accomplish the task, but the younger man felt distinctly dissatisfied with the idea.

 

He had other reasons for thinking so than the immediate task at hand, of course, but as the tactician he was allowed to solve many problems at once. And so he laid the wine glass on the floor and found his feet, throwing his knight a quick cool glance when he dared raise his eyes in question. Then he strode the short space back to the bed with the white sheet still trailing regally from his narrow shoulders.

 

It took him a moment to find the bottle of oil. At some point it had rolled off the bed and landed in the nest that had once comprised the knight's dignity. Briefly he considered that the royal blue and black cape would have made a much better disguise for the role he played, but the fact of its true ownership would have muddled the metaphor beyond use. So he continued on with the props at his command, because all he needed was a word and the set of his jaw to inspire obedience in the other man.

 

Not only because Aymeric wanted to be mastered. But because, it seemed, Alphinaud had possessed the ability within him all along.

 

Ser Aymeric was still watching him when he returned to the scene before the fire. But it was not a challenge or a question, merely a guiltily-lowered glance half-hidden by his hair. Alphinaud allowed the other man a smile, though he withheld his kindness from it. He approached the edge of the table whereupon the man perched, noting the novelty of standing taller than he for once. But he did not allow himself but a quick moment of irritation that he had not yet reached his full height. It did not matter here. He was a man, and Aymeric knew it fully.

 

If he did not, he would soon.

 

Rather than speaking to make clear his intent, he held out his left hand expectantly, reasoning that there were only a few things his thrall could have made of the gesture and that any resultant confusion would be entertaining in itself. His knight met his eyes with only a thimble of hesitation, before stilling at his task and holding out his own hand. Alphinaud took the offering with only a hint of roughness, and drizzled a spoonful of oil onto his palm. It gave off a warm scent, cloves and spice. Forevermore the smell of sex, of secret trysts and of ownership, given gladly.

 

Then he released the hand and re-corked the bottle, tossing it upon his chair. Aymeric was able to guess well enough the purpose, returning his hand to work and squeezing his eyes closed at the wet sensation. He emitted a low sound, rough and indistinct, a rich chocolate moan that didn't seem to want to escape his echoing chest. Alphinaud wondered how much better it might feel than his own saliva, forever slick and soft, never evaporating or becoming fraught and sticky.

 

Instead of following the temptation where it led, he followed it to his lover's lips. He moved closer, standing between the knight's knees. He grasped the man's angular chin between sure fingers, and lifted his face to meet his own.

 

Kissing him was different, now. Because Aymeric held back, did not claim him greedily as he was often wont. He let Alphinaud dictate the pace and followed only slowly, as though he were being taught the rules of a new game. He opened his mouth to the younger man almost immediately, though, hardly able to contain his own wet sighs against the pleasure that built in his body. When Alphinaud finally took the dark space for his own, Aymeric seemed to shiver in his grasp. He trembled and whimpered, searching with his lips and practically begging him to delve deeper, as though his tongue had found other places on his body and brought him to the brink of pleasure with the force of his kiss alone.

 

Alphinaud wanted to pull him close, cradle his neck in his arms and suck on his tongue as the man came. His own breathing was no longer quite so calm, his dominance no longer detached now that he had tasted Aymeric's submission for himself. He was complicit in the act now, rather than a mere prurient spectator. If he held him like this and swallowed his moans, it would still be he that had given him release. It was still making love, even if the knight's own hand was all that caressed his cock.

 

But regretfully, he pulled away. The knight breathed a stilted sigh at the loss, his pale blue eyes dilated nearly all to black as though he were transformed by his frenzy into some other creature. Still he obeyed, did not stop the work of his hands, the dark, obscene noises that rang into the night. Alphinaud did not look. The sight of the older man's needy, unfocused expression was arresting enough, and more would merely have confused his senses and tangled his resolve.

 

He met the commander's eyes for several long moments, watching the way his mouth moved with his breath, gasping in time with the sound of his stroking hand. And then he abruptly ended it.

 

“Stop,” he said again. The same crisp command, but lower in timbre, quieter. He needn't project his voice to be heard, now. Aymeric would obey even had he been silent, reading the will on his lips as though his words were carved on ever-watching stone.

 

The knight responded immediately, bowing his head and shutting his eyes. He made a frantic motion with his hand and Alphinaud was unable to prevent himself from looking. Aymeric had seized himself around the base and squeezed, gritting his teeth and groaning. For a startled, arousing moment he thought the man had lost control instead. But then he relaxed his face and his grip, and he realized that he had only sought to prevent it.

 

“That close?” he asked wonderingly, pushing his mask aside for the moment and letting his curiosity get the better of him. He dipped his head lower to peer into his lover's face, watching the lines vanish from around his eyes as he relaxed.

 

And then Aymeric nodded, looking at him again sheepishly, his blush having found its way back to its place of birth. “Fuck yes,” he rasped, and his own mask slipped a little as he returned a giddy little grin.

 

The only reason Alphinaud's intentions were not tossed to the floor along with the sheet that slipped from his shoulders was that he had planned every movement in advance, lining them up in sequence. Now he only hastened them, placing his palm flat against the knight's chest and pushing swiftly. Aymeric allowed himself to be thrown backwards against the table, surprised by the sudden insistent motion and the way all expression seemed to vanish from his young lover's face. But Alphinaud would not wait a moment longer, climbing astride his hips once his knight had steadied himself on his elbows, perching carefully on the narrow space afforded by the table. He needed him. He had had him but a bell before but he needed him _now_.

 

It likely helped his ardor along that he now knew precisely how the other man could make him feel.

 

As he had the first time they had discovered the rewards of madness, Alphinaud now looked down on Ser Aymeric, astonished and naked and at his mercy. There was no hesitance, though. No fear was reflected in the other man's eyes as he looked up at the youth in wonder. It was all desire, acceptance. Love. And beneath it all, overriding need as strong as his own, excitement and even desperation.

 

He was aware that what he did now was a trifle cruel. But it made it all the sweeter.

 

“Control yourself,” he ordered darkly. And, not waiting for the other man to acknowledge him with more than eyes widened in anxiety and disbelief, he took what he wanted. He reared back on his knees to hover over Aymeric's cock, and reached behind him to guide himself true. With the very tips of his fingers he held the other man steady, guiding them both into alignment until he felt so very near to his goal that he could have claimed it with a single, inadvisable surrender to gravity.

 

He had not an onze of expectation that Aymeric would be able to comply with his demand. Neither of them were terribly experienced, after all, though the other man was possessed of enough grace and generosity that he might have struggled to tell. But it was more important that he try, and just perhaps, that he despair of accomplishing it. It would be all the sweeter to know that when Aymeric broke, it was because Alphinaud was the ultimate master of his body, and the knight was utterly helpless against his will.

 

And he did despair. Because when Alphinaud closed his eyes and lowered himself cautiously onto the man below, he could hear it in his voice. “Oh, Alphinaud, have _mercy_ ,” he moaned, anguished and aroused and oh-so weak. The younger man opened his eyes to see it, to see his shoulders tremble and his fists clench in the blanket beneath, to see the flashing of his sclera from half-lidded eyes that could no longer see the man who owned him. His movements had been slow for his own sake, but now he slowed further, watching Aymeric let his head fall backward and whimper like a beaten dog.

 

It was still a trifle uncomfortable, still an invasion that seemed to confuse his senses and stretch him farther than he thought he could take. But the slow slide was still erotic, the memory fresh. And so he relaxed, and gave in to the illusion that the slow penetration was inexorable, that he was not in control of the motion but rather slave to it, helpless to the way the other man filled him more with every passing moment. They were slave to each-other, now. And when at last he rested his weight fully upon the knight, relaxing his trembling thighs and leaning backward upon his hands to luxuriate in the feel of being so fully possessed, he too felt overcome. He too heard a whinge pass his lips as the hips below him wiggled with anxious need, and he wondered, in the end, who would play master to whom.

 

No, he knew the answer to that. There was no need to confuse his desires for weakness. Aymeric was his, no matter what they did together or what innocent piece of carpentry played party to the act.

 

Aymeric knew it as well, consciously, communicating it with the downward cast of his eyes once he had recovered his sense enough to use them for sight once again. Alphinaud could read the truth as surely as if it were written on his lax jaw, or the tooth that scraped anxiously against his lower lip.

 

He could read, too, the other man's struggle against the onslaught of pleasure, cruelly given when he was already too near to breaking by his own command. The kind thing to do would have been to wait, to give him time to collect himself further, or to ask if he was truly ready. And so he didn't. Alphinaud gathered what strength he was given, concentrating it once again into his thighs and his willowy torso. And then he lifted himself again, slowly, drawing out the motion as long as he could though his muscles burned in protest.

 

Aymeric watched him now, one hand snaking upwards along his thigh, gripping erratically as it moved as though he feared the youth atop him would vanish like a fae apparition. And perhaps he looked like one, with his fine limbs and gracefully-pointed ears, his long unbound hair cascading down his back or billowing out at his side, little wisps lifting on invisible currents of air and the electric tension in the room to glide against his shoulders as if charged with magic.

 

And then he let go, let himself be impaled, and though he too bared his throat and groaned helplessly through his teeth, it was not in submission. It was pure, base pleasure, the harsh discomfort being pushed quickly aside by the cock that filled him faster than he could register, striking hard against the mythic place within him that made the boundaries of his own body tremble and dissolve until he could not remember where he ended and his lover began.

 

Aymeric responded immediately, with a swift sympathetic thrust and a gurgling cry, wild and a little desperate. Alphinaud looked down at him again, feeling aloof once more, a little vague and aetherial as the sensations within him seemed to wash out the force of reality. He could step back again, view the suffering man beneath him with more of the cold detachment that he had only pretended to before. He was no longer playing the role. He _was_ the puppet-master, because sitting above the other man he could control every variable.

 

“Touch me,” he said, his own voice sounding distant and cool to the touch. And the knight complied, lifting his hand and encasing Alphinaud with it, coating him with what clove-scented oil remained. It was just as slick and warm as he had imagined, and he could not help but close his eyes and give in to the feeling, lifting his hips slightly to lean into the sensation and sighing his approval. The motion had other effects, bringing the fullness and pressure he felt within into alignment with the candy-sweet pleasure in his cock, making him rock subtly against the other man, making them both moan quietly with restrained joy, causing him to wonder how long he could draw out their dance.

 

Ultimately it would not matter, of course. Pleasure was fleeting, only their love was permanent. Aymeric wanted to be burned, but it was inconsequential whether the wick burned long like a candle or flashed in a blaze of glory and dragonfire.

 

So Alphinaud decided it was time to go about breaking his lover. Because the man had a habit of asking him for things indirectly, and he was sure as spring rains that this was one of them.

 

He focused his strength once more in his thighs, arching his back and leaning his hands on Aymeric's trembling legs. Braced like this, it was not so much effort to lift himself, thrusting up into the man's broad hand and feeling for a swift moment that their positions were reversed. He did not bother rising far, it was not necessary, and he hadn't the patience. He could hardly prevent himself from spreading his knees and merely falling back again. Instead, he reached out to the hand that held his thigh, and gave it a sure squeeze.

 

He was still in control even if his command was for the other man to please him. And his knight did so without a moment's hesitation, gripping his narrow hip and pulling him down atop him, emitting a pained groan at the force of the contact and the hopelessness of his task. Alphinaud could not be silent either, but dutifully he lifted himself again, arching his back and dropping his head behind him and closing his eyes in bliss. Aymeric lifted his hips to thrust into him again, not stopping for a moment the dark motion of his hand or the slick sounds it generated.

 

As they found their rhythm, Alphinaud lost the ability to pretend any longer.

 

Command was natural to him, yes, long-practiced and familiar. But it was only ever a front, a mask that he had placed over his own self-doubt. Now, while he controlled the position and the pace, it was Aymeric that brought him merciless pleasure. He could only stretch back his head and give voice to it, his throat and tongue leashed directly to the sensations in his body with no thoughts or pretensions in-between. Here, on a tea table in the backwater of holy Ishgard, a bed-sheet for a kingly robe and the armor of the very Lord Commander strewn upon the floor, Alphinaud forgot his insecurities. He no longer needed to sacrifice his pride or command his betters. He merely felt, trusted, gave everything over to the experience of the other man's body. It no longer mattered that Aymeric would surrender everything to him, because the fact of it occurring obliterated every concern from his mind.

 

He was called to awareness again, though, when his lover could take no more. Not because he failed to please, but because of the sounds he made, the piteous way he moaned as if his heart were filled with aching despair. Alphinaud lifted his head to regard him, to see the way he stretched to hold him and tensed his neck to keep it aloft. Like him, the other man had not a hint of guile remaining. Every feeling was writ upon his face, every hard, shallow thrust flickering over his eyes and startling his tongue. His lips were moist and bruised from biting and his voice ragged. It was well clear that he had no more restraint to give.

 

The tactician looked within himself, and summoned forth his strength once again. He found it somewhere in the pit of his stomach, not far from the aching stretch of Aymeric's cock. “Wait,” he growled, narrowing his eyes with what he hoped was cool disregard. It more likely resembled the glaze of pleasure, because he immediately rolled his hips and delighted in the deep pressure within.

 

As expected, the command failed to give his lover comfort, exacerbating his suffering. He dropped his head backwards and squeezed shut his eyes in anguish, letting the hand on Alphinaud's hip slip and claw a path through the fine sheen of sweat on his thigh. He clenched his teeth through snarling lips and groaned a high nasal keen. The younger man might have had difficulty telling it from pain, if he had not known the truth already.

 

The tactician looked upon his machinations, and felt the very edge of his lip turn up in a pitiless smile.

 

And then, unexpectedly, his opponent turned the tables.

 

Narrow blue eyes flew open to regard him in turn, a glacier to Alphinaud's ocean of feeling, impervious to the waves that lapped at jagged ice. All at once he remembered their first time together, the moment when Aymeric had growled at him and _demanded_ more, and the younger man had found no will to disobey. He had not considered that a man who so desired to be mastered might seize his trainer's whip. But he _should_ have.

 

“By your will,” said his knight. But it was an act of bold defiance. Because he sat up, perhaps with less grace than he was ordinarily prone, but swiftly enough that Alphinaud hadn't the time to consider forbidding it. And then, steadying a hand on his shoulder and another on his hip to secure the power and leverage he so needed, he proceeded to obey his order.

 

Perhaps Alphinaud enjoyed being mastered nearly as much.

 

The sensation had already bordered on too much for his body to contain, wearing thin the edges of his resolve and eating away at his focus. The shock of his knight's disobedience was like an axe to the very trunk of his composure, rattling his branches and knocking his smugness to the ground. As Aymeric rocked him forward in his lap only to thrust savagely against him, the overriding feeling painted over his pleasure was surprise. Surprise that, though he had commanded his knight, in the end he could prevail only so long as he held secure the man's complicity. Surprise that, though he possessed the strength and to hold captive his lover's will, the Lord Commander would push back the moment he scented weakness.

 

His last thought before he surrendered once more to his lover was that he was dearly looking forward to the challenge ahead.

 

But then his own fight was over. He clutched senselessly at his knight's back, pulling him close to find an anchor for his teeth, as much to steady himself as to mark his own claim. His lips vibrated along the slick shoulder, mirroring the moans he didn't even attempt to quiet and the explosion that seemed to seize his trembling body. Aymeric immediately responded, wrapping him in a sure embrace, thrusting impossibly deep and holding him to groan low and long in his ear. It was a triumphant sound, deep and possessive. Rich and musical with an edge so low as to dip into the wellspring of love.

 

The sweat between them grew hot and slick, the air heavy with their sin. And then the two lovers sighed, their frenzied grasp releasing by degrees until they lay spent upon the table. Panting softly, now, as one.

 

At first, Alphinaud had no wish to break the silence. It seemed almost an insult to profane the air with frivolous words, after what they had spoken earlier, and experienced afterwards. But eventually he struggled to his feet, offering his hand to the man whom he had very nearly tamed. “Let us to bed,” he said softly, with a smile that he could not have hidden behind all the wine in the world.

 

The knight opened his eyes to regard him in a manner that lived somewhere between provocation and indolence. But after a moment he rolled sideways and then pushed himself upright, taking Alphinaud's hand and drawing support from it as he stood.

 

“As you wish,” he rumbled affectionately. And then the sinners found their rest.


	14. The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It has come to my attention that Aymeric is 32 in canon (I'm told this has only been out a few months when I had begun this chapter, I have an EXCUSE), and I am very, very upset. The main reason I haven't had Alphinaud and Aymeric discuss age in this is not knowing a reasonable figure, but really, I was thinking in the 25-28 range. Stupidly young and naieve, but still really, in our world at least, too old for a 17-year-old. I know I'm pushing it, really, I do. I try to mitigate the consent issues but there's only so much I can do, and Alphinaud is in fact pretty so there you have it. o.o But 32... I can't really work with 32. I don't know how to deal with it. For now... just pretend he's younger than that, if you need to, because to finish this it's what I'll have to do.
> 
> Only a few chapters to go now. :3
> 
> **NaNoWriMo news:**  
>  Yes, I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year, I took a break from writing Bellyachin’ and other projects to devote myself to an original story with original characters. While I enjoyed the effort and learned a lot from my 60k success, I feel that the story is too flawed to be worth re-working it into a finished novel. Perhaps someday, but not now. Not when I have so many other wonderful ideas!
> 
> This is good news for you, because that means this year’s effort will be posted here—eventually! Because I’m going to use my 50k goal on completing the first draft of To Say No. November is going to be a gift to myself, a guilt-free chunk of time to devote to my favorite story, most of which is already laid out in my mind, waiting to be written. I can’t wait!

_There was three kings into the east,_

  _Three kings both great and high,_

_And they hae sworn a solemn oath_

  _John Barleycorn should die._

   -John Barleycorn, version by Robert Burns

  
  


Alphinaud did not ordinarily remember much of his dreams. He was too focused on the day-world, on the things he meant to accomplish. From time to time, a dream might illuminate to him another angle of a problem he hoped to solve, or point out a worry he had avoided acknowledging. Other than that, he had a tendency to ignore them, even resent them. He much preferred to be awake, because the time he spent asleep did nothing to accomplish his goals.

 

This night was not much different. The things he dreamt were of little consequence and less sense. But one thing stayed with him, one key piece of his wakeful life that his mind carried with him even in idleness and insensibility.

 

Alphinaud was happy, no matter how deeply he sank into the warm blankness of the world beyond his pillow. He had what he wanted, and not even the nonsense of his restive mind could make him forget who held him in his arms.

 

Until he heard a knock at the door, and his dreams all blew away like a flurry of cherry blossoms in the spring.

 

“Wake up, Milord!” sang a familiar greeting, echoing in from the hall. “I'll be back in a few minutes with yer breakfast, so don't dawdle!” Junh was so petite that when she raised her voice, it tended to come out a little shrill and scratchy, as though it were against her very nature to be loud. The young politician had taken to welcoming her meddling, but this morning her well-meaning screeching filled him with dread.

 

It meant his tryst was ended, and it was time to become a different sort of companion for the knight at his side.

 

Said knight evidently did not expect the disruption. The moment the knock had sounded, he had begun fighting with the sheets, upsetting the secure oasis of warmth within their bed and flailing gracelessly onto the floor. Alphinaud responded rather more sensibly, scooting forward into the warm patch his lover had vacated and lighting the lamp by touch and a shard of crystal.

 

Then he leaned over the bed to look at his knight, settling his chin onto the corner of the mattress and smiling sleepily at the sight. Sadly, his lover was still protected by a trailing sheet, but he could still see quite a bit. His long, lean legs, the broad chest and flat stomach, the arms and hands that were capable of both strength and precision in equal balance. There was a purpling bruise on his shoulder, the mark of the bite Alphinaud had foolishly left the previous night. But it did not detract from his beauty, any more than the blush on Aymeric's cheeks as he looked up at his lover in embarrassment. And, perhaps, something akin to awe.

 

“She knows you're here, obviously,” said the younger man by way of reassurance. “She's just giving us fair warning. Sadly, it seems we do not have time for...”

 

The next words were cut off quite forcefully by the press of Aymeric's lips against his own, followed shortly by the reappearance of warmth against his side. The other man had recovered his pride quickly enough to lurch against him and then crawl haltingly back into bed, pressing him into the mattress and making him wonder just what it was that was so important to say.

 

He had been exhausted last night, so much that he had barely had the sense to drag the blankets back to bed with him. Now, his body hardly remembered aught but the pleasure the other man's touch could bring.

 

“I believe she said we have a few minutes,” murmured Aymeric into his ear. And as the larger man's weight was settled firmly atop him, he had neither the strength nor the inclination to disagree. His cock answered enthusiastically, like a dog who understood its master by the mere tone of voice. The husky growl of his lover's bedroom whispers made him throb with need, and it suddenly seemed worth the risk that Junh might interrupt them again.

 

At least this time, he knew, she would not tell a soul. “A fair point,” was all he could muster in response. The rest was mere encouragement.

 

Ordinarily he resolved his morning urges on his own. This seemed, all-in-all, a much more economical solution. Instead of searching the room for the bottle of oil, Aymeric merely spit into his hand and reached between them. It took more effort than anticipated to align their bodies appropriately, the problem eventually solved when the knight slid Alphinaud's legs over his and around his waist, leaning over and pressing their bodies together in a parody of their embrace the night before. Rather than moving against his arse, the knight was pressing against his cock, and the implications seemed new and scandalous, somehow dirty all over again.

 

That did not mean that Alphinaud was opposed. He merely wrapped his arms around his lover's shoulders, pulling him close, thoroughly convinced he would enjoy what came next.

 

The answer was the same thoroughly inescapable grip that had encased him the night before, wrapped around his length and squeezing him against Aymeric's own. The other man growled softly in his ear, low and rough, and the younger Elezen could not have been certain that his light-headedness was not from the sound alone.

 

The physical sensation was little different than the commander's hand alone had been. But there was another point of contact, hot and silky, and just as hard as he. Aymeric thrust against him in counterpoint to the movement of his hand, and the implications made his thoughts go numb and jelly-soft. Close, so very _close_. Such an intimate thing to share, one man to another. Last night Alphinaud had dominated his knight, made him tremble at his own touch. Now he felt embraced. They were equals, lovers, partners in crime. He could feel it in every shudder and stroke, hear it in every soft, senseless sound Aymeric groaned in his ear. He could taste it in every half-formed kiss, as their mouths sought blindly after each-other, caring little for the stale flavor of sleep but pushing beyond to the sweetness inherent in love.

 

It took little time before Alphinaud was gasping in Aymeric's embrace, clawing at his back with what little length of nail he hadn't yet bitten in distraction. He tried to keep his voice down, tried to focus. Junh would be returning at any moment. They could not dally, could not throw caution to the wind and lose themselves to passion. But it was precisely what they did then. And it was all he could do not to cry out for more.

 

Finally he did cry out, the slick, contradictory motions against his cock confusing him, making him feel like a pot that had boiled over and emptied itself to char over the flame. He was lost in a kiss then, breathing around Aymeric's lips in fits and gasps, but his lover felt him jolt and tremble, sealing their mouths together to catch his voice. Effectively muffled, he let it break. He shouted wordlessly against his knight's steadying tongue, spasming against the unrelenting movement until his lover, too, moaned achingly into his mouth.

 

If they had not needed a bath before that, they certainly did now.

 

Aymeric withdrew his hand, now thoroughly sticky with all manner of mess, and rested his forehead lightly against Alphinaud's own. He hovered there, not resting the full weight of his body, but pressed close regardless. It seemed to take him some time to reign in his breathing and flutter his eyelashes open again, staring dully into the space somewhere behind Alphinaud's head, unable to focus any closer without going cross-eyed. He appeared thoroughly sated, and completely at a loss for words, reduced to an air of bleary, unfocused affection.

 

“I... _believe_ I was trying to say that you should go bathe,” said the younger man after a moment, tracing his hand gently over his lover's abused shoulder and enjoying the way Aymeric's eyelids dipped at the contact. “If you leave by yourself, none should think it strange to see you leave a guest room. I shall tarry here and bathe separately once you're safely gone.”

 

The knight, _his_ knight, lifted his head just enough to nod, then rolled gracelessly away. “We will meet anew in just a few bells,” he answered quietly, the edge of his smile sweet and soft. “Do not think it so easy to be rid of me.” Then he sat up, and together they went about cleaning him up and clothing him enough to walk the halls without suspicion.

 

“I should heal these,” said Alphinaud regretfully, tracing his fingers over the bruised bite-mark and the scratches on the man's back.

 

“Did you heal your own?” Aymeric ventured in return, raising his eyebrow to regard him over his shoulder in sly amusement. The diplomat's hand traveled automatically to the joint of his wrist, where the bite had healed with naught but a smoky-dark line over the base of his thumb.

 

Alphinaud smiled sheepishly and nodded, not in confirmation but agreement. He edged forward imperceptibly, letting his forehead droop to rest against a broad back tacky with their night's exertion.

 

Unlike his chest and arms, there were remarkably few scars on the knight's back, the mark of a warrior who held no fear. He imagined the few thin lines he could see behind his shoulders and along his torso were all the result of accidents and childhood play. Though he was not too proud to sound the retreat to save his men, Aymeric was no coward. The young Arcanist would needs protect him with everything he had... if for no other reason than that the knight would be doing the very same for him.

 

A surge of protectiveness flowed through him, like the charge of magic, hovering around his breast where he imagined his heart to carry his feelings like the spark of Aetherflow.

 

Rather than discharge it in a spell, he tilted his chin forward to place a single kiss along Aymeric's spine.

 

The kiss the commander returned to him a moment later took rather longer, but they were able to disentangle themselves before Junh arrived. Clad in a soft robe and carrying his armor amongst a bundle of towels, Aymeric went to wash away the evidence of his crimes.

 

Alphinaud stayed to pay the price for him, enduring Junh's rosy smiles and cheerful bustle with more patience than he had thought he possessed.

 

Fortunately, the maid knew better than to ask questions. She merely served him his customary breakfast, leaving him a wide swath of personal space as she bustled about the room and clucked with delight. In the end, she seemed to have extracted all she had needed to know, merely from the way his lips would move without his will into a smile of sly contentment. Beneath his pyjamas, a blanket around his shoulders, and a mug of tea clutched to his breast more for the warmth than the taste, he could truly believe he had the courage to face any foe.

 

It was worth it to defend his love, no matter how much they risked in the process. No challenge was great enough to deter him. He simply didn’t care about anything that dared to stand in their way.

  
  
  


It was well, then, that Alphinaud had gotten the sentimentality out of his system early. Once he had broken his fast and bathed himself, he was already as a general on the path to war. He still carried the warm, irrational glow of young love in his breast. But he was a master now of his own body, as well as that of those he would command. He stepped into the Intercessory with his coat draped over his shoulders like a regal cape, head held high, lips stern and unyielding. Even the Warrior of Light seemed to flinch a little in surprise.

 

He was a different man.

 

Not from the hopeful virgin of last night, he understood. But from the childish, frail boy who had sought shelter in the Falling Snows. He had been too shocked and frightened to do aught but stare into the cloudy depths of his mug of chocolate, content to let his friends see to their future when he should have steered that course by his own hand. He had been so sure of himself when he had founded the Crystal Braves. But it was a false confidence, borne of privilege and pride.

 

His confidence now came from knowing well his limits, and exceeding them. When he stepped onto the battlefield today, it would be as a warrior, rather than one who assumed the power of those who, for reasons unknown, might pretend to lend him their own.

 

When he protected Aymeric, it would be with his own strength. The same hands that had retrieved his knight from the depths of despair, and the will that had secured his cooperation when every fiber of the man’s being had protested his involvement.

 

Everyone had assembled, all the pieces on the board. Haurchefant, the unpredictable Knight, sitting quietly at tables edge, eyes veiled over smugness and secrets. Lucia, the nimble Bishop, standing tall at Aymeric’s side, her gaze stone-steady like a statue whose featureless face saw only the future, lurking in the far corner of the room. Tataru, the sly Pawn, in her tall stool off to the side, inventorying her maps and notes and studiously avoiding his gaze. And one singular adventurer, the warrior Queen in their game of chess, smiling in gentle approval at him. Happy to see his resolve returned, it seemed, or perhaps merely happy to be in Camp Dragonhead once more.

 

At the head of it all sat Ser Aymeric, the precious King to his game. But seeing Alphinaud enter, the commander held his gaze for a moment, letting his serious diplomatic mask fade into a soft smile. Then he closed his eyes, unfolded his hands, and stood with deliberate grace. He moved to the right, opposite Lucia and flanking the chair like a throne. Taking the place of the guardian Rook and standing to respectful attention, it was a clear invitation.

 

Lucia made way as Alphinaud strode toward the chair in measured, confident steps. Internally, his stomach performed a small somersault as he sat down upon it. He had never thought to sit here. Never thought to usurp Aymeric’s place. Perhaps he had proven himself worthy, when he had clashed with the Lord Commander the day before. The knight had ceded the place to him willingly, for all to see. Alphinaud had effectively been Castled. He might as well have truly been crowned king, of Ishgard, Ul’dah, or Mooglekind.

 

He must have looked terribly small, sitting in a chair that towered over even Aymeric’s sinewy height. But it didn’t matter to him anymore. If the adventurer was surprised by the change of seating, only a grim smile remarked upon it.

 

“Thank you for answering the summons, my friend,” Alphinaud began, the meeting having been called to order the moment he had entered, by force of will alone. “In a day when those who have seized the reigns of power would seek to besmirch your name, you yet are the one light of hope we might always be assured will burn bright and true. This task may seem trifling. But the Geomancer stands, currently, against our safe refuge in Ishgard, and threatens to lay low the fortunes of the one voice of power who yet speaks wisdom in a land of silence and intrigue.”

 

The Warrior of Light made little acknowledgment of the statement, but a pair of echo-deep eyes flickered, briefly, between Alphinaud and Ser Aymeric standing obediently beside him. For a moment, the diplomat wondered if his secret was plain for all to see. But the way the adventurer’s eyes narrowed in anger spoke otherwise, and Alphinaud smiled ruefully in agreement.

 

“My feelings precisely,” he said, leaning back and finding his ease in a chair built for one of twice his stature. “Ser Aymeric has been endangered once by him already, and dozens of knights have given their very lives in his pursuit. While it may be ideal to capture the fiend for questioning, I think it prudent to bring back his head… even should it suffer the misfortune of an untimely separation from his body.”

 

Maybe he had not meant to pronounce the words with such bloodless chill. But it was impossible not to take pleasure in the statement. Not now. Not when he was prepared to do it by his own hands, if necessary. From the corner eye he could see Aymeric twitch just slightly in what could have been surprise. But beyond that and the narrowed, bloodthirsty gaze of a warrior too strong to remember the taste of fear, there was little reaction to his declaration. None dared question his resolve.

 

“Timing is everything,” he continued. “Without the element of surprise, we place ourselves in grave peril. We will proceed to the entrance of the Ogre’s Belly, prioritizing swiftness over formation. Once there we shall regroup, splitting into two units. Yours,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture as much for clarity as respect, “shall take the vanguard, disarming any defense they hope to levy against us. They may believe their fortress inviolable, having, as they do, a blizzard at their beckon. But they may also expect to entertain an entire army. I am certain that neither eventuality should pose a problem to you and your friends.”

 

The adventurer nodded steadily, as though it were already fact. From his quiet place at the table’s edge, Haurchefant made a pleased, rumbling hum of agreement, eyes dancing to imagine it. Alphinaud nearly missed it, but he was sure he spied a swift, shy grin from the stoic hero. Lord Haurchefant caught it too, his face contorting suddenly in shock as though he’d reached into a biscuit jar and speared his hand into an entire chocolate cake.

 

It was nice, for once, not to be the one whose dalliances were on display. It wasn’t worth teasing the lord over it, not now. In that department, he was far outmatched. Though perhaps a few years by Aymeric’s side might hone his wit fit to compete with the both of them.

 

But he was more concerned with the sharpness of his steel, this day.

 

So he pressed on. “Once the way has been cleared, the second unit will move to secure the target. I am certain I need not tell you that the deed should be done by Ser Aymeric himself, but I see no harm in supporting him if necessary. To that end, I will be accompanying the second unit. Should circumstances change suddenly, heed my call. It is a mission of significant risk, with little hope for safe retreat if victory is not secured. As ever, only by committing fully may we find success.”

 

The truth of the words stung him then, a quick prick of panic in his breast. The adventurer was no stranger to the danger they faced. But now he was committing Aymeric to a mission that would likely mean his death if they failed.

 

It didn’t even enter his mind to change his course. He merely nodded in conclusion, glad that he was there to defend his lover. Dying in the attempt was not even an option. He would succeed, simple as that.

 

“I trust you have no questions?” he asked of the warrior whose eyes echoed his own determination. And in fact it had been pointless to ask. With a curt nod and a grim smile, the adventurer left the room, carrying Haurchefant’s attention like a flame pulling at the wings of a moth.

 

It was Lucia who stirred next, leaving her post by Alphinaud’s side and saluting her commander elegantly. Being so close to his side and in pride of place, the younger Elezen couldn’t help but imagine briefly that she was saluting him, as well. “All is ready, according to plan. We ride at your command,” she said, and then saw herself from the room at a signal from Aymeric.

 

Alphinaud was fairly certain he did _not_ imagine the sly smile she cast upon him on the way out. Nor the smirk his lover beamed downward, once he dared to look up at the man that towered over his throne.

 

He was saved from wondering what it all meant by Tataru. “Um, Alphinaud, if you will but wait a moment… I have a gift for you,” she said, just short of shy and bright enough to light the room in place of the fire.

 

Lord Haurchefant’s smile was somehow even more dazzling. “Really?” he chirruped, clapping his hands together. “Splendid! As do I! But please, show us yours first!” He launched himself out of his chair in a manner that seemed to defy geometry, somehow appearing at Tataru’s side without having properly cleared the table’s rounded corner.

 

The king shared a small, secret smile with his guardian rook before vacating his borrowed throne. Together they made the journey round the table’s edge with considerably more decorum. Tataru had fished a wrapped bundle from beneath the table, bulky and soft like Alphinaud’s coat had been. She held it out to him, standing on her chair with lips pursed in an expression of hope and pride. The young diplomat noted as he took it that some of her tiny fingers were taped with bandages, or chafed red and raw.

 

“I had hoped to have more time to finish it,” she said in answer to his questioning glance, tucking her hands behind her and out of sight. “With our planned move to the Holy See, I _had_ thought you might need something a bit warmer. But with your new habit of wandering into _evil ensorceled blizzards_ , it seemed wise to hurry it up.” Her teeth mocked him crisply, even as her cheeks glowed warmly like apples ripe before the frost.

 

Alphinaud certainly deserved the scorn, though he was of no mind to correct his misbehavior. “Thank you, Tataru,” he mumbled, a little bereft of a better reply. “As invaluable a friend as you have already proved to be, yet never do you cease to surprise me.” While he knew her to be a woman of industry and great cleverness, it had not occurred to him that she would be capable of making him clothing by hand, of any kind.

 

He had not expected much—a scarf, perhaps? But when he unwrapped the bundle to reveal a myriad of blue and white felt, reinforced with leather and thick enough to keep out even a magicked blizzard’s chill, he was certain it wasn’t _that_. It was clearly a set of garments of tremendous quality, made of materials he hadn’t even names for. Thick felt, smooth, creamy leather, and every stitch in place. Amazingly, it was even augmented with Sharlayan technology, layered with aetherially-conductive components that served to increase the flow of aether and store it for later use.

 

Even made by hand, the materials should have cost a small fortune. Knowing Tataru, she had come by them some other means. But even imagining her bargaining with passing traders, or sending adventurers on dangerous quests for scraps of rare leather, he couldn’t imagine how she had managed to obtain a king’s ransom in fine goods.

 

Alphinaud was not alone in his awe. Everyone had become chessmen again, stony and still save for the tiny pawn. The Lalafel wrang her hands anxiously and rocked from side to side in anticipation. Finally her anxiousness overflowed, the tea kettle in her heart whistling a shrill sweet song. She threw her hands in the air and jumped, balancing expertly on the chair as though it were a pedestal for her display. “Try it on, it won’t bite! Don’t just leave us in suspense!”

 

The king was provoked to movement, placing the long white boots on the table and unfolding the royal blue coat to his scrutiny. But Haurchefant was prodded too. “Yes, by all means, Master Alphinaud. Try it on! Show us how it fits you!” The lord grinned wide and crooked, his eyes pushed nearly closed from the brilliance of his teeth.

 

Had Alphinaud been able to see the mischief in his eyes, it was like he’d have been provoked to violence. As it was, he gritted his own teeth, pulling the coat closer to his breast as though to shield his nakedness from view, though he was fully clothed. “Perhaps once I have a moment to myself,” he bit, jackboots instead of petticoats and not a bit demure. “There is, after all, a lady present.”

 

The pawn had the good grace to laugh, a warm sound that bubbled from behind her delicate hand. She swung herself from the chair, singing out her decree. “Then by all means, don’t let me stop you! I’ll wait outside, the better to see everyone’s surprise!” Then she practically danced from the room, swinging her arms gaily at her sides as though a coronation awaited her at the far end of the board.

 

She paused at the door, shining her sunny face back at him in unbridled glee. “Don’t take too long,” she sang. “Or everyone will wonder what’s keeping you!” And then she vanished from the game altogether.

 

The young tactician might have felt in better humor at the jest, had Haurchefant not remained. He had settled himself backwards in another chair, hunching languidly over the backrest. He hid his grin behind folded arms, lurking like a stalking coeurl lodged high within a tree. Aymeric’s stance changed subtly at the metaphorical threat, on guard as though he truly expected the lord to pounce upon his lover and carry him into the night.

 

But Alphinaud was still a leader even if he had doffed his crown. He would have none of it. “I said a moment alone. Out with you,” he groused.

 

“If I’m to be declared a lady,” said Haurchefant slowly, pursing his eyebrows in thought, “I should at least be allowed to wear a dress. Aren’t you going to ask about _my_ surprise?”

 

“No,” said Alphinaud, with as much flavor as a Limsan sea biscuit. “But I expect you shall tell me either way.” It didn’t take much imagination to realize that Lord Haurchefant would be difficult, so he revised his tactics. He gathered the clothing gently in his arms, placing some of it in Aymeric’s attentive hands. At the front of the room was a screened-off storage area, and it was there that he went to change. It took only the merest nod to his knight to prompt him to stand guard before the screen, though his eyes flickered regretfully over the younger man as though wishing for another chance to see him nude. But he soon turned away, having decided Haurchefant was the larger threat, or at least that he didn’t want to be caught staring. The tactician was left with just enough privacy to feel silly for making excuses.

 

So he laid out his precious acquisitions, absently shoving aside stacks of maps on the small, disorderly table. If he proceeded with planning and organization, he could minimize his exposure and get back to preparing for the very real dangers to come, rather than worrying about such trifles as nudity.

 

“You know,” said the mad lord from somewhere beyond, “I’m beginning to feel that I’m not welcome.”

 

Alphinaud was saved from having to answer by his faithful watch-dog. “That is because you make it your mission to cause offense,” replied Aymeric smoothly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what your adventurer sees in you.”

 

It buoyed the younger man’s spirits, just slightly, to have his knight defend him, even if it were a mere joust between friends. Thus freed from conversation, he went about stripping his shoes and then his stockings, to replace them with knee-length trousers and high leather boots that flowed beneath his fingers like smooth butter.

 

Haurchefant made a coughing sort of noise, which might have been disguised laughter or just an improperly-timed inhale. Then he recovered, punctuating his counterattack by the scrape of his chair against the floor. “Aymeric, darling, surely you don’t think that. It isn’t what you said when we camped together in the Western Highlands. Don’t you remember? Resting together ‘neath the stars, the scent of rolanberries wafting on the wind?”

 

Suddenly the air in Alphinaud’s lungs was too hot, pressure in his throat far too tight. He was filled with a sickly jealousy too volatile even to allow him to breathe, and his hands abandoned the straightening of his boots merely to prop him upright against the table’s edge.

 

_What_ had they done under the stars? How fondly had they whispered together, how deeply had they drunk of the open air?

 

What had Aymeric felt, back then, for the madman who hounded him still?

 

He became aware of the knight moving slightly in the corner of his vision, but he refused to show more weakness by acknowledging his insecurity. Instead he bent once more, studiously ignoring the cautious glance Aymeric cast upon him, listening as though he were a mere observer in a conversation that didn’t concern him in the slightest.

 

Finally his lover replied, the dog’s final warning before the bite. “ _No._ I believe I said ‘don’t you _dare_ touch me, you addle-brained heathen,’ and as you failed to _listen_ , I broke your nose. _Arse_.”

 

The accusation was greeted with a sharp flutter of laughter, butterflies escaping from Haurchefant’s breast. “Ah, yes, but that was an _accident_ ,” he insisted, warm and wistful. “Your ire is merely another form of _love_. You’d never have let me bleed on you otherwise!”

 

As Aymeric’s only reply was a curt, angry rumble, Alphinaud was left to dress in relative peace.

 

He knew it was completely irrational to be jealous of his lover’s past. If Haurchefant had made him even the slightest bit happy, he should in fact be glad of it. But the biting reply had reassured him immensely. Perhaps, inwardly, Alphinaud needed to be Aymeric’s _only_ lover, just as Aymeric was his. It was far too soon for commitments, for promises and forevers. But he was struck with a zealous need to have his knight, not merely in the present and the future but in the immortal past, and the strength of his possessiveness was nearly frightening to behold.

 

It seemed that, while no stranger to love any longer, Alphinaud still had much to learn. Perhaps he should take it as a blessing, then, that Haurchefant would continue to test his patience.

 

Of course, if he were truly honest with himself, he had learned much from the mad lord already. The thought was like an unruly fish in a net, bringing a wash of cold brine with its realization. Or perhaps it was the effect of having doffed his own tunic, ready to trade it for the thick white felt that Tataru had provided. He threw it on quickly and only then examined the buttons that were tucked behind the lining. It was so elegant that even the _fastenings_ made him feel foolish. It was the strength of loyalty that Haurchefant had taught him. Of reaching out and _trusting_ , even when it seemed there was naught to be gained by it.

 

They had all surprised him.

 

Aymeric first, awakening feelings that the young diplomat had once abandoned as a frivolous waste of time. Haurchefant had penetrated his paranoia, proving his worth as a friend and an ally, no matter how odd he seemed. Junh had proven a surprising ally, and now Tataru had revealed herself as a master craftswoman, as well as the undying comrade he had already known.

 

They were not Warriors of Light. But they all had a hidden strength and cleverness in them that shone out of the brilliance of their friendship. It was every bit as powerful as the light of the Mothercrystal, and required no Echo to hear its song.

 

Alphinaud had once treated men as tools. Pieces on a board, moving to his whim. Small wonder he had failed to truly master them. Small wonder they had plucked away his crown.

 

If he had merely opened his heart to begin with, he would have seen that the loyalty of his friends would _never_ fail him. A smile wormed its way onto his face, though he fought it out of habit as he eased into the longer royal blue jacked, fine silver embellishments cool beneath his touch.

 

The gloves were the last items on the table, aside from the maps and papers he had displaced. They were black, and covered his entire hands rather than just his palms and wrists. He had come to prefer the old style. But in truth, Aymeric wore it far better.

 

Those selfsame slender fingers appeared in Alphinaud’s view, the knight approaching him quietly now that he was decent. “Let me help you,” he murmured, taking up the long white tie at his neck with careful concentration. When he had finished, it was knotted in a neat line over his breast, the style favored in Sharlayan and the Studium’s halls. Somehow the other man had known he would favor it.

 

It seemed the tactician was still smiling, because Aymeric soon took up the expression. Slowly, like a mirror fogged and sluggish with sleep. On the knight it looked even sweeter than it had felt, and then it became wide and lustrous as it took all of him in, pearly and pink with joy. He could have gotten lost in that smile, thought Alphinaud. He could have gotten lost in the warm look in his lover’s eyes, and the coy flicker of his raven-soft lashes.

 

“It seems I have grown so used to cold that I have forgotten what it was like to be warm,” said Alphinaud, feeling affection gather in his breast. Sill, the cold had served him. He counted himself a good deal happier for it, for all the foolishness it had inspired.

 

Cold, after all, was a wonderful excuse to be close to someone you loved.

 

He was not the only one who thought so. “Kiss him. You know you want to,” said Lord Haurchefant from far too near. Alphinaud snapped his attention back to the world around him, whip-quick, shattering the illusion that he and his lover had been cozy and alone. The interloper had crept closer to lean against the screen, a casual slouch that upset the chain-mail on his shoulders and made him seem ruffled, a deranged bird in a bad molt. Still, his smile was disarming somehow. Full of affection for them both, even as his eyes rested on Aymeric with that indecent twinkle in his plate-glass stare.

 

And then his grin was twisted to licorice and lemon drops, sliding to the side with the force of gravity as he tilted his head toward mischief. “Or I could do it,” he finished, batting his eyelashes at them both.

 

No, thought Alphinaud. Only Aymeric. This was between the two of them alone. Somehow in the stillness of his mind, the calm before the blizzard, he could see it clearly. He could see it in the way his knight’s eyes narrowed to violence long-contained, anger mixed with _hurt_ as he turned toward Haurchefant. He could see it in the way the lord shifted his stance, feet planted securely, sadness behind his teeth.

 

This was a battle too, he thought, watching Aymeric gather his fury with a sense of detachment. He had merely been too mired in his own jealousy to see it. But now that his mind was clear, the tactician within was unleashed. He didn’t need to see the fist the knight made to predict that a blow was coming. Everything was laid out before him, pieces arrayed on the board.

 

The tactician acted.

 

The Lord Commander’s fury would not refuse his lover’s hand, snaking out to grasp his jaw and turn his face as though he guided a chocobo by the reigns. Aymeric started, shaken from his anger to stare instead in wonder at the man who held his love and attention.

 

Having diffused the danger, Alphinaud then stood on his toes to lurch into the older man’s grasp, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing their lips together. It should have been bittersweet. It should have been soured and dusty, a relic of Aymeric’s past that neither of them could toss away. But it was mild and clean, softening as the other man gathered him closer and accepted his kiss.

 

He lingered there only a moment more before lowering himself back to the floor, savoring the confusion on his knight’s face and the way his arms loosened their hold only slowly, only in response to his gentle backward pull. He didn’t want to be released, but it needed to happen. Only now. Only for a moment.

 

Only to demonstrate his trust.

 

“It’s alright,” he said gently, turning now to include Haurchefant in the soft beam of his smile. “Say whatever needs be said. I shan’t stop you.”

 

Then he wormed his way free of the taller man’s grasp and backed fully away, watching carefully with stilled breath and a hopeful heart. As though he had offered a captive bird up to the sky, and waited for it to take flight.

 

Haurchefant was still that bird, an awkward fledgling, legs and wings in every direction and beak wide agape. The lord stared after Alphinaud’s retreat in wonder and a little fear, before lurching forward and burrowing into the vacated space in Aymeric’s embrace as though refusing to fly from his nest. The knight was too astonished to do aught but hold him, stroking his back as he cast his confusion between Alphinaud and the ridiculous man in his arms.

 

“I was afraid to love you,” gasped Haurchefant all of a piece, his face buried somewhere deep in Aymeric’s cloak. “It was easier to make you hate me. Provoking you was safe. I knew where you stood. I knew you wouldn’t leave me just for being an insufferable _git_.”

 

Aymeric spared one last bewildered look at Alphinaud, who had settled against the briefing table’s edge. He nodded, hoping his smile was more reassuring than sardonic.

 

Understanding dawned on the knight, conflict glittering across the surface of his eyes before they closed, like a meteor shower in the night. He threaded his fingers into Haurchefant’s storm-tossed hair, leaning closer and relaxing his scowl into something akin to pleasure. “I never truly hated you, you know that very well,” he said softly. “You made it so difficult to be at ease. If you had only trusted--”

 

“I _needed_ you to hate me,” choked Haurchefant, sounding a bit wet around the edges. “I was _used_ to that. I knew you cared. But it frightened the dickens out of me to think of growing dependent on _anyone’s_ love. Even if you never betrayed me, things had a way of… I could not trust to fate. I took what happiness I could… and left the rest. Pray forgive me for leaving your feelings aside as well. You deserved far better, truly.”

 

Alphinaud caught Aymeric’s gaze once more, though it had grown misty and distant, veiled with grief. It was hard not to be moved himself, compassion easily besting the jealous rage he’d ordinarily have had great difficulty fighting off.

 

Compassion for two men, his friend and his lover. And compassion for the young fools they’d been, fearful and embittered in ways Alphinaud had only begun to understand.

 

To the man that stood before him, wiser for his trials, Alphinaud gave another nod. Slight, but decisive. He shaped his lips into the ghosts of words, bereft of living voice. “Go on,” he mouthed, his sugar-coated smile just a touch sour. He could allow this. He needn’t fear. He had faith in Aymeric’s love, and Haurchefant’s unconquerable friendship.

 

At the very least, it would bring some ease to their hearts. But Alphinaud was the tactician, and he played against his own fears. Haurchefant was not his enemy, but rather the yawning expanse of years that separated the two men’s hearts. By giving ground, he showed not weakness, but strength.

 

Aymeric’s cautious kiss was the final blow. Haurchefant whimpered into it, wriggling in the knight’s sure grasp as though seeking to magnify the effect of his embrace. They were tangled now, knotted together like their shared past. Reliving the memories that had borne them thence, carrying them to Alphinaud’s dispassionate judgment and final binding decree.

 

He would have thought himself jealous, beneath that cool exterior. He would have thought himself angry, possessive, frightened of losing the man who had become as important to him as Eorzea itself. But he was not. He was filled with calm. With warmth and a sticky sort of sadness that gathered at the corners of his eyes. His smile crept wider around his face, winding and narrow and treacherous.

 

He was happy for them. Happy and something more. A little giddy. A little thrilled to see his lover kiss another man, and know his claim well safe for it. He could allow it. And in that acceptance was peace, and joy, and fresh daises blooming in his heart.

 

Perhaps a little lust, as well.

 

The knight’s dark lashes flickered, accompanied by a low, mournful sound. Then he withdrew, breath heavy but muted, lips red and tongue between his teeth. He guided their foreheads together with a firm grip still tangled in the other man’s hair, nodding at his soft whimpers and blinking slowly at the light. “Then I won’t forgive you,” he said, his voice at one with his sigh. “I don’t think I could leave off pretending to hate you if I tried. But I don’t need your assurances any longer. That heartbreak is healed, if sore.”

 

Haurchefant hummed contentedly, a wistful breeze at autumn’s end. “As long as you always hate me, then I shall be content.” Then he pushed, wiggling now to free himself from the gravity of his past. Pushing softly, not _too_ sorry to win free.

 

Aymeric let him go. From the softness of his smile, it seemed he too had buried his regret.

 

Then Haurchefant filled Alphinaud’s vision with the insistent brilliance of the rising sun. It blinded him briefly with panic, making him freeze briefly, as though playing at death. But the lord’s lips merely landed on the younger man’s brow, a kiss as innocent as any could be. “I hope that you shall grow to hate me too, in time,” he said sweetly, before drawing back to grin, bright as morning fully dawned.

 

“I don’t foresee any difficulty in that,” replied the younger man drily, with a hint of lemon in his mouth. Haurchefant lifted his arms as though to launch into an embrace, but Alphinaud stopped him with a frown and a raised finger. The lord obeyed, unable to refuse the wisdom of the king that had granted him such gifts. “Though I shall have to resort to murder should you think to kiss either of us ever again,” he finished, just to make his point absolutely clear.

 

“Of course,” Haurchefant replied, laughing as he mocked a bow. “If you’ll excuse me then, I have _one more_ farewell kiss to give. Don’t take too long! I still have that gift for you. And if you dawdle, I shall have to make up some excuse for your delay--”

 

Aymeric stopped him, shooing him from the room with a grip on his shoulders and a shove toward the door. “Keep your filthy tongue to yourself, if you please,” he said, no heat there any longer save a lingering warmth.

 

Haurchefant turned back only long enough to waggle that tongue in mockery and glee, and then he, too, was gone.

 

They were alone. Which meant they could be one again, a brief press of bodies and lips that struggled to be close enough. Alphinaud was surprised by his thirst for the other man, the way he clawed against his shoulder and failed to find a secure hold. Aymeric read something of his intent and found his own solution, grabbing him around the waist and pushing him to sit atop the table. The knight nudged between his legs and turned toward a kiss, putting every thought and feeling he had into his embrace. It wasn’t domineering. But it was protective, an expression of his devotion and his loyalty, dispelling any doubt about his love.

 

Alphinaud had no doubts any longer. He hadn’t need of them. He had everything he needed, anymore.

 

His knight spoke first, pulling back just far enough to run his lips reverently over Alphinaud’s brow, as though placing blessings and wards instead of kisses. “You surprised me,” he said, nervous laughter lurking deep beneath his quiet words.  
  
“Not _too_ unpleasantly, I hope,” murmured Alphinaud against the knight’s shoulder, where it seemed he could not insinuate himself near enough for his liking. “He spoke to me of his regrets, a few days past. It seemed something he wished for but hadn’t the courage to do. I do not know the whole of it, but I am glad to see it done.”

 

“You let me kiss him,” said Aymeric, quite unnecessarily. He peppered his own kisses along the younger man’s jaw, as if to apologize for his obedience.

 

Alphinaud bristled, became a hedgehog trapped in the other man’s steady grasp. “I did not let you _lie with him_. I have struck a pre-emptive blow and ended the whole matter, and now I may rest assured that he is happy and you are _mine and mine alone._ ” He let himself enjoy a moment of irrational, possessive glee, gripping his knight all the tighter while the other man laughed softly in his hold. The sound was glorious against his ear, all echo and strength, a deep and sensuous melody. His, he thought. His lover. His knight.

 

At length their task imposed itself, wedging itself between their thoughts until their greed for affection became its own sort of sin. They relaxed their hold slowly, taking but a few more kisses as they drew apart. Alphinaud took his lover’s offered hand and eased himself from the table, never dropping it as they walked regretfully toward the door.

 

Aymeric stopped before they reached it, even as the younger man reached toward the handle with his unencumbered hand.

 

“I’ve told Lucia,” he said abruptly, then ducked his eyes to hide from Alphinaud’s look of scandal and scorn. But the rook soon met his king’s gaze once more, with the courage of his conviction. “You are not the only one entitled to his own council. Think of it as the price of my acquiescence to your plan. This is the only way I might be at ease, while you accompany me into danger. She will stay by your side, and I shall needs worry less with her to guard you in my stead.”

 

The tactician’s scowl did not abate, mispleased to have been out-maneurvered at his own game. Worse still, it made perfect sense. Aymeric would be at far less risk, either from attack or from discovery. But he did not have to enjoy it merely because it was logical.

 

“Very well,” he said tartly. “But you shall pay the balance later.”

 

Aymeric’s sharp eyes narrowed at the challenge. Then Alphinaud was trapped, pushed solidly against the door as the other man licked indecently along the length of his ear. “I should certainly hope so,” he whispered, a husky rasp on the edge of his tongue, wet and catching in his throat.

 

Then he pulled back and opened the door, breaking the spell and sending them back into the wild world without. “I’ll look forward to the accounting,” he said with a grin, and then he was striding around the corner, the Lord Commander once again.

 

Neither of them doubted it would come to pass. Love would see them through this battle, and beyond.


End file.
